


The Firebird

by mystarsandmyocean, spyglass



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Additional character tags will be added, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, May the Angst Be Ever in Your Favor, Trust us just about everyone is going to be included eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2523494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystarsandmyocean/pseuds/mystarsandmyocean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/pseuds/spyglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventy three years ago, the districts of Panem rebelled against the Capitol and were defeated.  Each year since, in punishment, and as a reminder of the power and grace of the Capitol, every district yields one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 through a lottery system to serve as tribute in the Hunger Games. Twelve districts reap twenty four tributes, but the Hunger Games only ever have one victor, the last tribute standing. </p><p>Felicity Smoak is 17 when she is selected for the Games. To win means she can go home; to lose, a death to remember.  The Golden Girl, they call her, the tribute from District 5 - may she rise from the ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Grace and Sam here, and we’d like to politely ask you to read this entire - admittedly long - note through before beginning our story. We have several points we’d like to discuss with you, and we promise they will all be relevant in the chapters to come. 
> 
> A) Be warned - this story will contain graphic material. This includes, and is not limited to: violence, torture, dubious consent and sexual content, discussions of PTSD and trauma, and character death. Chapters containing more explicit material will be appropriately labelled at the top of the page, but if you find these topics as a whole upsetting, this may not be the story for you. We hope to treat all of these issues with the care they require, but if you have any concerns or questions about future content, please feel free to ask us for more details.
> 
> B) Speaking of violence, we’d like to address the specific topic of violence against women. Unfortunately, this is a scenario that occurs in far more graphic detail and with far more likely odds when it comes to media depictions, and we have done our very best to balance the need for better representation with the needs of the story. That being said, there is some violence against women here, though certainly far less, we think, than what you’ll find on average.
> 
> C) We are following a three book structure here. That means - yes! - after The Firebird, there will be two more stories to come. That does not, mean, however, we will be following the plot of The Hunger Games to a T. As such, if you're wondering why we chose certain characters for certain parts - feel free to ask us, but we swear we have a reason and we reserve the right not to answer for future plot spoilers. We will be using many - if not ALL - of the characters from the show, so if someone hasn’t shown up yet, there is a very good chance they will. On that same note, please be warned, characters from The Flash are considered fair game for us. And finally, while this book/story should remain firmly in M-rated territory, based on our plans we are expecting books two and three to fall under the Explicit rating.
> 
> D) As far as the use of Ray Palmer and the Ray/Felicity relationship: we’ve been plotting this story since early September, long before S3 started airing, and this is an AU story. The story’s plot called for this particular relationship for Felicity, and this was what fit best, given what we have to work with from the show itself. We are (unfortunately) not psychic and cannot predict how the Ray/Felicity S3 plot is going to go, so we are simply using one imagination of the character that was drawn up well before the premiere aired. Additionally, this is an Oliver/Felicity story so while other relationships will be part of the story, their relationship will be the ultimate focus as far as personal relationships are concerned. (And if you’re wondering why we did not choose Barry for this role, please be patient! Also, see note C.)
> 
> E) If at any point you would like to talk to us about this story or anything else, please come find us on tumblr! Grace is difficult and her tumblr is found at [allstartstofade](http://allstartstofade.tumblr.com/). Sam is located far more conveniently at [mystarsandmyocean](http://mystarsandmyocean.tumblr.com/). We hope you’ve stuck with us this far, and are still interested in reading on. Our plans for this story are fairly well fleshed out at this point, and we’re very excited to share it all with you. While this is certainly a story that is going to touch on difficult issues, it’s something we have enjoyed working on and look forward to sharing! :)

As he emerges from the forest, the sunlight nearly blinds him, the heat searing the burns on his neck. The moon set only hours ago, but high noon has come to stay. 

He’s watched enough Games to interpret that sign - the Gamemakers demand a final confrontation, where all the districts can see. The day won’t end until then. 

Squinting, he can just make out the cornucopia in the distance, nothing but the open field separating him from where it all began. Five days ago, the odds hadn’t been in his favor. All bets had been placed against him, the Career tributes primed to hunt him down, but they had underestimated him. Everyone had underestimated him, and now only one remains. One last tribute, and it will all be over.

He limps as swiftly and deliberately as he can, determined to make it to the cornucopia before the final tribute. Reaching it first equals high ground and the means to protect himself; it will give him the advantage. His bow and arrow will do the rest.

He’s halfway to the cornucopia when the tribute from District 2 stumbles into view, emerging from the other side of the forest. The last of the Career pack, the boy who had intimidated everyone during training has vanished, and in his place, a gaunt, beaten boy stands instead.

This is the confrontation the Gamemakers wanted: the two remaining tributes in the open field. But he has something else planned.

He still has one last arrow.

Everything else fades away - the burns on his back, the searing pain in his side and his left leg, the drone in his bad ear - as he focuses on his one final target.

Steadying himself, he pictures his home in the mountains, the targets he’d once painted on tree trunks, and nocks his arrow, lets it fly. It thwicks through his opponent’s neck, skewering past skin and bone. The cannon booms before the body even hits the ground, but he doesn't wait for the hovercraft to retrieve it.

He turns and starts running, and he doesn’t stop. Not until he reaches the cornucopia. 

Over the loudspeakers comes the cheer of the Head Gamemaker: 

_“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the winner of the 66th Annual Hunger Games!”_

A humming picks up behind him, a hovercraft appearing in once-empty space. But this one is different from the twenty three that preceded it. This one has come to take him out of the arena. It’s over now.

_“Our victor, Oliver Jonas Queen!”_

He’s won.

He’s going home. 

 

xxx

 

_“And that, my friends, was the moment we knew - a moment you will never forget. The moment a tribute becomes a victor - ”_

Felicity shivers in the crowd, wrapping her mother’s old sweater tighter around her too-small frame. Since the Games started - and Moira Queen whisked herself away to the Capitol, as she does every year - it’s been bread crusts and scraps from the other families her mother sews and cleans for; Parcel Day cannot come soon enough.

Her mother says Parcel Day is the only good that comes from having a victor. Felicity wouldn’t know, of course. This is the first time in her life that District 5 has _had_ a victor since Moira Queen won the last Quarter Quell. Almost everyone in the district has gathered in the town square to watch as one of their own is finally crowned for all of Panem to see.

Donna Smoak stayed home, though, claiming she would rather watch on the small television that Felicity is always trying to keep in working order. Donna always gets quiet during the Games, and she only watches the minimum required of her. Felicity thinks her mother would miss the Reaping, miss the whole thing, if she could. But Felicity stopped asking why a long time ago; her mother never answers.

Most years, she stays home with her mother, but these Games she’d watched from reaping to final tribute.

On the projector screen, Oliver Queen appears confident as he recounts the Games with the Master of Ceremonies, charming and smiling as he answers all of Warren Patel’s questions. He should be happy, she guesses - he is the son of the victor of the last Quarter Quell, and at fourteen, the youngest victor of the Hunger Games in the history of Panem. She’d been so mad when he’d been reaped, the boy who who’d once snuck her cookies from the kitchen. It's never fair, the reapings, but he’d always been so nice, even if her mother was the help and they lived in a rundown shack in the Glades instead of the Victor’s Village or even the city itself.

She had almost asked her mother if she could stay home too and avoid watching the majority of the Games. This was the first year she had really known one of the tributes, but she knows it won’t be the last. So instead of running home, she had stayed and watched Oliver Queen fight off two Careers, breaking one’s neck, stabbing an arrow through the other. She’d watched him escape from the fire that had killed three others, knocking down the only escape route before they could join. She’d watched him gather wound after wound, his hair burnt short, his leg a mangled mess, his back a river of bruises. 

He’s none of those things now. The boy on screen leans back in his chair and recounts every kill, smirking. Proud. 

He doesn’t look at all like the boy who used to sneak her cookies anymore.

 _“So, Oliver, you’re debuting a whole new look tonight - I especially like the new haircut.”_ Patel winks, the camera zooming in on his face; Oliver runs his fingers through his hair in response. The blonde strands are gone, buzzed off; it makes him look older, sharper.

 _“Of course,”_ Patel continues, _“I imagine everything feels new now that you’ve won. But I have to ask - is the Oliver sitting here different from the one who went into the Games?”_

Oliver shifts in his chair, straightening his slouch. The smirk stays, twisting his face, but his voice flattens. _“If you’re wondering if the games changed me, they didn’t.”_ He reclines again, taking up the chair as if it’s a throne, his birthright. _“I’m still the same Oliver Queen.”_

He’s a terrible liar. She’s never noticed before, and nobody else seems have paid attention, whooping and cheering at _finally_ having a victor again, at one of their own coming home. It’s been a long time since they’ve even had a tribute make it to the final eight. Much more often, their tributes don’t survive the first day.

That, she does remember, the wailing and cries in the square every year since she was old enough to attend, when their own tributes are slayed. Anastasia’s parents had collapsed this year, when she hadn’t made it past the initial bloodbath; the female tribute from District 1 had mowed their daughter down with a sword. They haven't been seen in public since, and Felicity doesn’t have to look around to know they aren’t here tonight, either.

She wishes she could join the celebration, but she feels as if she is rewatching the first day of the Games all over again, horrified at the sight of Anastasia’s body, the moment of her death playing on repeat as one of the first day’s highlights, but still relieved that at least the boy she knew had managed to escape without harm. A breeze blows through the crowd, and Felicity shivers again, pulling the sweater tighter still and noticing a hole in one sleeve that she’ll need to patch up later. 

The interview draws to a close and that's when the real celebration begins: dancing, cheering, even calls for a ring of fire, though there’s no wedding to be had. Just one boy who didn’t die, a new victor crowned, even if life will return to normal soon enough. In a matter of days, Felicity will be back in school with the other children, and the adults will return to the factories and power plants in the industrial district. The Queens will arrive back in the city, and her mother will return to work, caring for their home and the homes of several of the District’s other prominent families. She and her mother will go back to mending clothes by the dim light of broken lamps salvaged from the factories instead of by the flicker of the Games across their television screen.

Until next year, of course, when the Games begin again. She’s watched enough times to know that this year is a rarity - next year’s two tributes will very likely not be coming back.

Slipping out of the crowd, she takes off at a run, echoes of the joyous celebration nipping at her heels. She leaves behind city pavement, dirt roads familiar beneath her feet, and pushes away thoughts of Oliver Queen, their triumphant victor.

The Games are over now, and her mother is waiting. It’s time for Felicity to go home.


	2. Act I: The Hatching; Chapter I

Act I: The Hatching 

Chapter I

 

_“There are no safe choices. Only other choices.”_

                                                              - Libba Bray

  


This early on Reaping Day, the paths between the city and the Glades run empty, no one eager to leave for the main square earlier than necessary.  Normally, all of the citizens use these alleys for the exchange of less-than-legal goods and services - the outdated factories long abandoned and ideal for avoiding the Peacekeepers’ eyes.    

Today, though, another reason entirely makes the location ideal.  

“We can do it,” Ray whispers, pressing light kisses to her lips. “Think about it - this is my last year, and you’ve only got two left.”  Crowding between her legs, he hoists her onto his waist, keeping the wall of what once had been a power plant - before the Capitol had sent down plans, and demands, for a more efficient building - to her back.  “Felicity,” he murmurs, “We can _do_ this.”

“How many times,” she questions, pushing her glasses back up so she can meet - and actually see - his eyes, “is your name in there today?”

“Fourteen,” he answers, the guilt crossing his face briefly before he kisses her again, an apology.

At eighteen, this is Ray’s last year eligible for the reapings.  But because he has no family, he’s only taken tesserae - and the extra food it provides - for himself the past seven years. Whereas she, at seventeen, has taken tesserae for both herself and her mother.  Unlike Ray, her name will be entered into the reaping ball eighteen times.

It’s been a point of contention between them over the past year. Ray had wanted to marry as soon as he had turned eighteen so that he could take tesserae for her and her mother, so that she could hopefully make it past the reaping age as well, but Felicity had refused, insisting that if - _when_ \- they marry, it will be because they want to and not because of the Games.

Felicity understands odds, after all, and hers aren’t so bad when she runs through the math. Most of her friends and classmates have far larger families and have taken far more tesserae than either her or Ray.  There are only eighteen slips of paper labeled with her name this year, eighteen out of thousands.  Worse odds than some, but significantly better than most.

“Two more years,” she repeats against his lips, brushing away the chill that passes through her as they lean against each other in the early morning light. “We can do this.”

“We can,” he agrees, settling her back down to her feet and tugging gently on one hand, “but first you need to get back home before your mother starts to worry.”

Felicity laughs quietly.  “Mom never worries when I’m with you.”  Reaching up on her toes to kiss him again, she shakes her hair loose when it snags on the wall, her lips landing instead on the corner of his mouth.  He shifts his grip from her hand to her waist; she curls into his side.  On days like today, just being together comforts her.  

They’ve lived in the Glades their entire lives, both lost their parents to the Capitol in one way or another.  Ray’s parents worked at one of the energy plants until the generators malfunctioned, sending the old factory up in smoke; Felicity’s father tried to run and was killed for his trouble.  Ray runs his fingers through her hair, wrapping the blonde strands through his fingers.  “Probably because she knows I worry enough for ten of her,” he muses.

Felicity wrinkles her nose. “Please don’t talk like you’re my mother,” she says, “because that would mean I have the same thoughts about you that I do about my mother, and yeah, that is _definitely_ something neither of us wants to think about…”

Trailing off to her usual mental countdown, Ray leans down, kissing her again, soft and sweet.  “Trust me,” he smiles, “I do not think about your mom the way I think about you.  She’s practically _my_ mother, besides.  Speaking of which, you know her room will need to be on the other side of the house, unless you want her having those thoughts about _us_.”

Making their way out of the alleys and into the sunshine, Felicity curls closer into Ray.  “Just two more years,” she reminds him.  They’ll get married then, on their engineers’ salary, and her mother will move out of the Glades and into a new house with them.  Switching tracks, she thinks on her mother, their broken-down television set, the Games she barely watches. “Besides, she probably won’t be paying much attention today anyway. You know how much she hates the Reapings.”

Ray just nods, sighing.  “We all do.”

Their mantra, this time, goes unsaid: only two more.

“You should stay for breakfast,” she offers, as they transition from city streets to the dirt paths of the Glades.  At the end of one such road lies the small shack where she’s lived her entire life.  “Mom picked up some mending from the baker last night, and he sent some rolls along with her.  He wanted to wish us good luck.”

“I wish I could,” he answers, “but I need to get back. Some of the boys are a little restless, nervous they’ll be reaped even though it’s only their first year. I should be there to help.”

After his parents died, Ray moved into the community home on the edge of the Glades.  He was only a year younger than those boys then.  Felicity knows no one helped him through his first reaping; it’s why he stays to help the younger boys now.  That first possibility - however small - is always the hardest, the most terrifying.  She had been lucky growing up; with the rare exception of Oliver Queen, most tributes had been older, but in the past few years, several tributes have been much younger, only twelve or thirteen, which makes the possibility all the more real, no matter the odds.

“Okay,” she agrees, reluctant to part.  She knows their odds, knows how likely it is that she and Ray will be kissing again by dinner, mourning the loss of two more residents from District 5.  The first Reaping Day may be the hardest, but it never gets easier.  “I’ll see you before registration?”

“They couldn’t keep me away.”  He smiles, pulling her in for one last kiss.

She watches him until he disappears around the corner, his dark hair a mark against the blue sky.  It’s a few minutes more before she turns around and heads inside, her mother already home and waiting.

 

xxx

 

Oliver lingers, bow in hand, as he watches the only other two people out on the streets so early in the day.  The abandoned buildings shadow his presence, even though there’s really no need for him to hide.  They’re too wrapped up in each other - and he assumes, the day ahead - to notice anyone else.

Her, he recognizes, of course.  Felicity Smoak tutors some of the city children who struggle to keep up with their math and science classes, crucial for all residents of District 5, and his sister Thea is one of her students.  Thea adores her, but Oliver has barely spoken to Felicity since they were children, when she used to accompany her mother to help clean their house.  

He’d remembered her, though, and after his Games, when they’d met anew, he’d been drawn to her easy smiles and blonde hair.  Now, he always watches for her, taking note as she passes through the town square or travels to and from the central energy plant on weekends.  Sometimes, he sees her going to work as part of her school study program; other times, she goes to meet with the boy.  Ray, Oliver thinks may be his name, but he can never bother to remember.

The boy ducks down, cradling her in his arms.  They seem happy together, he realizes, even on a day like today.  As though being together brings them comfort, makes it easier.

He wonders what that must feel like.

Felicity wraps her arms around the boy’s neck, pressing kisses to his mouth; Oliver shifts forward for a better view, nearly escaping the safety of the building’s shadows before pulling back.  Had this been the Games, they’d have been dead already, skewered through the neck or incapacitated by his own hands.  He shudders, picturing that blonde hair dripping with blood, those blue eyes wide and blank.  Instead, he focuses on how at ease they are with each other, how comfortable, and the safety that might come with trusting such an embrace.

When she changes positions, scooting into the boy’s arms, he jumps at her yelp, arrow nearly notched.  They’re safe, though.  Just her hair ribbon caught on the wall, fluttering loose from her ponytail and down to the dirt.  

The only danger here is him.

Ducking further back into the shade of the building, he tracks their passing, closing his eyes as their conversation washes over him.  He’s usually not close enough to hear her talk so much - not like when they were children and she trailed after him, mostly for his toys, another lifetime ago - but even then, she’d made the same odd leaps in conversation.  It’s not quite the same as her trust in the boy’s embrace, but it _is_ comforting, the rush of unaltered memories, the familiar lilt in her voice as she bounces from conversation to conversation over the course of one breath.  When he’s not in the Capitol, he avoids saying much; when he _is_ there, he...well, he doesn’t particularly have much of a say.  

Until the silence of the alley replaces their footsteps, he fills his head with pictures of their conversation, imagining himself in the place of the boy, where he is close to someone only because he wants to be.

Hidden from the world, the Reaping Ceremony still hours away, he feels almost - safe.

The sun eventually sneaks in, driving away his hiding place, and he props himself up off the wall, bow still clutched in hand.  His mother won’t expect him back for a few hours more, time enough still to slip away to the mountains and the archery range he’d set up there.

It’s not quite an escape.  If he doesn’t return, after all, he knows what the consequences will be.

But today is Reaping Day, and he’ll take what he can get.

He’s nearly past the alley when a flash of red catches his eye.  For a moment, blood, bright and slick, fills his vision - the spray from severing the carotid artery of District 9’s tribute - but he tightens his grip on his bow, the sting of his nails in his palm overriding the memory.  The details sharpen into view as he crouches down, the red closer to crimson than blood in reality.  A hair ribbon, his mind answers, like the ones Thea wears.  He’s never seen Felicity’s blonde ponytail without one; she must have forgotten to pick it up once it had fallen out.  Rubbing the worn linen between his fingers, he pockets it, wondering what that lack of awareness must feel like.  He’ll return it to her later.  There won’t be time after the Reaping Ceremony - there’s always a rush to move the tributes to the Capitol, but as soon as he and his mother return from the Games.

He’ll hold onto it for her until then.  

Moving back on course, it takes only minutes for him to reach the barbed wire fence at the edge of the District. He can hear the low buzz indicating the power is on today, just as he had expected. Even though power and energy are District 5’s main industries, there are only a few weeks a year when electricity is guaranteed to work in the Glades - the weeks from Reaping Day to the crowning of the new victor.

The power may be on, but Oliver has been escaping through this section of the fence for years, even before his own Games, and he knows exactly what to do. He pulls out an old pair of his father’s industrial gloves and slips them on. Disconnecting the weak spots in the wiring along the fence, the flow of electricity comes to a sudden halt and he is able to slide under the space just beneath the barbed wire. Once he and his bow are safe on the other side, he reconnects the wiring, the power charging back to life.

The Peacekeepers are never any the wiser.

And for the next few hours, his time is his own.

The overgrown mountain trails are as familiar as the grip of his bow, the solitude of his temporary escape the only comfort he allows himself anymore. When he reaches the hollowed out tree trunk where he stores his arrows and other weapons - knives and additional bows all fashioned from the scraps he’s found here in the forest - he allows himself a moment to rest.

As soon as this year’s Games are over - as soon as he’s allowed to return from the Capitol, that is - he must start bringing Thea here, must make sure she can defend herself.  It’s what his father had done with him, training him with a bow and arrow until his aim was flawless.  He’d wanted to start with Thea this year, before her first time eligible for reaping, but the president had prevented him, requiring Oliver’s presence in the Capitol from last Game’s end until only a few weeks ago.

The odds may be entirely in Thea’s favor, he knows, but the odds haven’t helped any of the young tributes he’s mentored in recent years.  He had been an aberration his own year; now, young tributes seem almost expected.  He cannot afford to be lazy or let his guard down.  Oliver has been aware of that fact since the moment he woke up in the medbay after his own Games.

The Games themselves may have ended, but he never truly left the arena.

No victor does.  

Slinging his quiver onto his back, he nocks an arrow onto his bow, breathing in as he draws the string back.  There are a multitude of targets to chose from, paperweights and strings of leaves his father first gathered before Oliver took up the task, all arranged for either distance or difficulty.  Each tree in his vicinity bears the mark of where an arrowhead once was buried deep.  

Everything around him lies still; there is no one in the mountains but him today.

His target chosen, his fingers hover near his mouth, his muscles quiet in wait.  There is no one but him here, him and his target.  

Breathing out, his arrow flies.  He notches another.  For now, Reaping Day can wait.      

 

xxx

 

A pile of aprons lay across Donna Smoak’s lap when Felicity enters, her mother’s needle threading across the tears in the cloth.  As usual, signs of Reaping Day do not mark their home beyond the absence of Felicity’s usual chatter.  Not that Donna normally responds, but today, Felicity knows her mother prefers a silent household.  

There won’t be much chance for quiet later, anyways, once the Games begin.  

“Ray says hi,” Felicity tells her mother, pecking her on the cheek.  “He said he’ll meet us before registration at the square.”  

Donna’s eyes don’t stray from her task.  “I left the rest of the rolls for you by your bed,” she answers.  “Save one for him if you’d like.  There should be enough.”

“I will,” Felicity agrees easily, her gaze lingering on her mother’s form as she crouches over her mending.  They always share whatever they can with Ray, and he does the same.  “I should start getting ready,” she reminds her mother when she doesn’t respond.  “I’ll see you in a little while.”

For the first time since she entered, Donna puts down the aprons she’s been mending. “I drew your bath already,” she says. “I’ll come fix your hair when you’re done.”

“I…” Felicity pauses, pleasure bubbling up, before leaning over to kiss her mother’s cheek again. “Thank you, mom. That would be - really nice.”

She leaves her mother in the kitchen and heads to her small bedroom, where she finds the tub filled with water, waiting for her as promised.  She sets her glasses on the small table beside her bed and discards the skirt and blouse she wore to meet Ray before stepping into the tub, the water warm against her skin.

Warm water is a luxury they rarely indulge in, and so she sinks back into the tub, giving herself a few minutes to enjoy the sensation of water washing over her.  They have to heat the water on the stove and most days, neither she nor Donna can spare the time or energy.  It must have taken her mother more than an hour to prepare the bath, a gesture she hasn’t made in quite some time.  Luxuries are hard to come by this close to Reaping Day, and Donna always grows distant around this time of year, withdrawing inside herself until a few weeks after the Games.  But it’s been ten years now since Felicity’s father had run, disappearing one morning just days before that year’s Reaping Ceremony - and then returning the same day, this time in a box, the Peacekeepers eying her and her mother with disgust.  

Maybe now, she hopes, her mother can finally move on from the past.

Pulling out her hair band and shaking her hair loose, she makes note of her missing ribbon.  She’ll need to make another later - luckily, their home has plenty of spare fabric.  Hopefully her mother will even still have the same crimson linen in their cloth bag.  She focuses instead on scrubbing off the grease and dirt from the energy plant, relaxing into the tub once clean and lingering until the water turns cold.  But even though she enjoys the warm water, the entire process can’t help but feel a bit silly.  District 5 lives in grime, but once Reaping Day comes, they all wash it away in fear of being covered with far worse in the arena.  

Except the victors, of course.  Each victor always gleams brand new for his or her first interview, as if they’ve only just bathed, clean as fresh water.

Drying herself with the towels her mother laid out on the bed, she’s surprised to see one of Donna’s old dresses beside the breakfast rolls.  From what she remembers from photos, her mother hasn’t worn this dress since her own reaping years; the fabric’s mostly faded now, but it once had been a beautiful pink, Felicity’s favorite color.  Stuffing half of a roll in her mouth, she chews before swallowing, running her hand across the tie at the waist.  At seventeen, her parents had already been married, in spite of the risk of reaping.  

Felicity wonders if Donna’s sending her a message.  Even if Ray practically _is_ already part of their family.

Slipping into the dress, Felicity’s hands tangle in the back buttons, her arms not quite long enough.  

“Mom?” she calls, ducking her head out the door.  Donna hasn’t moved from her spot, but the works shirts have replaced the aprons.  “Can you button the back for me?”

Finally putting aside her needlework, Donna places the mending on the table and crosses to Felicity’s side.  She makes swift work of the dress before moving onto Felicity’s hair, combing back the blonde strands with just her fingers, pulling them together into a high ponytail, the way Felicity always prefers to wear her hair.   

“There,” her mother nods, smoothing her hands alongside Felicity’s shoulders, clasping her elbows before slipping away.  “You’re ready to go.”

Felicity turns to thank her, but Donna’s already tucked back away in her chair, needlework in hand.  “You should leave soon if you want to meet Ray before registration starts,” she reminds her.  “The Peacekeepers will want to start on time.”

“Of course,” Felicity murmurs, re-adjusting her glasses before grabbing the extra rolls from the bed.  Her mother won’t arrive until the last possible moment, too old for reaping, and as such, registration.  Kissing her cheek again, Felicity lingers only a moment before pulling away.  “I’ll see you there?”

Donna only nods in response, a frown crossing her face.  Opening the door, Felicity braces herself against the glare of the sun.  She’s glad one of them, at least, can ignore the realities of Reaping Day and the odds it holds.

She, however, does not have a choice.  With one last glance around their small kitchen, she steps through the door and out into the late morning sunlight.

 

xxx

 

When Oliver returns to the Victor’s Village, he walks immediately up the steps to the only occupied home in the circle of twelve. As a victor himself, he’d had the option of moving into his own home as soon as he’d returned from his Games, but he’d had as little desire to leave his mother and sister after his victory as he’d had before he’d been reaped.  His father’s death had brought them all closer; his reaping - and subsequent survival - of his Games had given his family even less desire to be apart.

And now, he’s hardly home from the Capitol enough to make an independent home worthwhile anyway.

Arriving in the entryway, Thea’s nervous chatter carries from the kitchen.  He follows the sound of his sister’s voice and finds her seated at the table eating breakfast - she’s cutting it close, her wild hair a sign she has yet to wash up.  His mother stands behind the counter; she narrows her eyes, distress at his late arrival clear despite her silence.

“Ollie! You’re back!” Thea cries out, jumping up from the table and into his arms.

He returns her hug easily, wanting to offer her any comfort he can to ease her nerves.  He’d never forgive himself if something were ever to happen to her, even if it was only a panic attack from Reaping Day.  There’s little chance, of course, that she’ll actually be reaped, but he could have said the same for himself - only three slips of paper with his name, and he’d still been chosen from among thousands.

Two tributes and two victors from one family.  Those are either excellent odds, or terrible ones.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks, leading Thea back to the table, as if none of them have somewhere to be in less than two hours.  There’s a basket of pastries from the baker, filled with the croissants Thea likes so much, in addition to a still warm plate of scrambled eggs and a bowl piled high with whole fruit.

Not quite a Capitol feast, he thinks, scooping some eggs onto his plate before grabbing a pear, but there’ll be plenty of those soon enough.  They have food enough to feed two well-sized families from the Glades, though there are only three of them, but he simply ignores the disparity.  

His first year, he’d tried to share the spoils of his victory with one such family from the Glades.  Both children had been reaped, two years apart, and Oliver had learned his lesson.

“Ollie,” Thea whines, when he takes only a few bites of his eggs, “can’t you at least _pretend_ to like them?  We made them just for you.”

“I’m not hungry,” he replies, slicing his pear with the knife from his pocket.  His mother hates it when he uses hunting tools instead of proper utensils, but she’s already annoyed with his behavior.  And the day isn’t exactly going to improve.  “Besides, Speedy, you’re the one who should be eating more.  You can’t live on just pastries.”  

Thea doesn’t dignify him with a response, sticking her tongue out instead and grabbing another croissant from the basket.  If he could, he _would_ give her just pastries to eat; it’s why his mother leaves Thea with Shado whenever she’s called to the Capitol on her own. His old friend possesses far more discipline than he’s ever had.

“Thea, dear,” Moira sighs, taking Oliver’s plate away from him.  His mother, at least, knows he won’t eat anymore.  Not today.  “Why don’t you go wash up and change before we leave?  You want to look your best for Reaping Day.”

Mouth stuffed with croissant, she raises her eyebrows at both of them before swallowing. “Sure, mom,” she drawls, “I’ll let you have some alone time with Ollie.  Just bring him back in one piece, okay?”

It’s a familiar family mantra, one they’ve repeated ever since Oliver was reaped for the Games.  Thea had clung to his leg and begged him to come back; their mother had sworn she would bring him home.  

He hadn’t told Thea how much the Games had changed him, had never wanted her to see him differently as a result.  He knows she’d watched, of course, but at only five, she hadn’t really grasped the realities of what he’d done. Of what he’d _had_ to do.  He hopes she never realizes how much of himself he left behind in the Games and how much of him is still in there.           

“Of course, darling,” Moira calls after her, shooing Thea out of the room.  “I left that lovely blue dress on your bed; please be sure to wear it!”

As soon as Thea vanishes from the kitchen, Oliver heads for the pantry, retrieving the bottle of vodka he keeps stashed on the top shelf. His mother sighs, disapproval still written on her face, but hands him a tumbler, and he pours the clear liquid into the glass before returning the bottle to the shelf.

He takes a long swig, the alcohol burning his throat, but he knows he needs _something_ to take the edge off and help him survive the next few hours. Every year it’s the same story; every year, he can’t bring his tribute home.  For the most part, he’s long past believing he ever will.  

“I’m not going to ask you where you were this morning,” Moira admonishes, though they both know he’s only ever gone to his same, familiar spot.  “But Thea was worried about you.  It would have been nice if you hadn’t cut it so close.  They’re expecting us in the square early today, and we do need to check Thea in.”

“Then it’s a good thing they can’t really start without us.”  He can’t help sounding short; his mother knows how much he hates Reaping Day.  He takes another long drink, intentionally looking anywhere but at his mother.

“Oliver, darling, I wish you wouldn’t.”  She takes a deep breath, and Oliver doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s closed her eyes to maintain her composure.  Moira Queen is many things, but flustered is never one of them.  She maintained her cool facade all through Oliver’s own Reaping Day, assuring her son that he _would_ win the Games and come back home.  “Today is going to be long enough as it is, and we still have a job to do.”

That’s where his problem lies, though.  They _always_ have a job to do.  

He’s grateful the buzz has already started to settle in, muting his senses and the ache that comes with being responsible for two more tributes’ deaths.  The meeting is the hardest part, when their families can still beg him to return their sons and daughters, when the hope and fear still battle in the tributes’ eyes.  But not once have they been able to bring even one of their tributes home, and there’s no sign that this year will be any different.

Some nights, he thinks they’re better off that way.  The only fate worse than death in the arena, the victors say, is the life that comes after.  

Finishing his drink, he places the tumbler in the sink, not bothering to wash it.  None of them will be home for the next few weeks, anyway, and the president always sends someone to care for their home while they are away.  

The president is _always_ careful to remind them just how well cared for the Queens are.  Moira Queen was the first victor of his presidency, after all.

His mother is sitting on a chaise in the living room when he returns from the kitchen, statistics and profiles laid out in front of her.  She knows the names of each likely sponsor, the amount of money they’ve donated in the past, and the qualities they like to see in their tributes.  He doesn’t know the game half as well as she does, but he doesn’t think it really matters.  

In the last forty years, they’re the only two to have won in District 5 anyway.  

“Walter Steele has been promoted to Assistant Gamemaker this year,” Moira tells him as he sits opposite from her, sliding the profile into his hands.  “Unfortunately, that means he can no longer be counted on for sponsorship, but I believe he may be willing to help in other matters, should the right offer be made…”  

Oliver nods in agreement, skimming over the documents.  His mother prefers hard copies to tablets, reminding him of the value of privacy.  He wouldn’t know - he hasn’t had a private life since before his fourteenth birthday.    

“The usual sponsors for District 3 should be fair game,” she continues.  “They know not to expect a win two years in a row, not after the last two…”

Tuning his mother out, Oliver focuses on the lethargic weight to his limbs and the fuzziness behind his eyes instead.  Most of his buzz will have worn off by the time they are expected to arrive, but he’ll hold onto the numbness for a little longer.  If all goes well, Thea will survive her first Reaping Day and the tributes will not expect too much of him or his abilities as a mentor.  

They’ll die.  He’ll stay in the Capitol as long as expected, and only then will he come home.  Until next year, when the pattern will begin all over again.

 

xxx

 

The citizens of the square grumble as Felicity makes her way through the crowd, everyone somber and reluctant to move into their assigned spots.  Most days, the square is one of the rare places in the district where they all enjoy themselves - market days and holidays, and each time there’s a wedding.  Wedding days are Felicity’s favorite. Each district follows their own traditions, or so she’s heard - she’s never attended a wedding in another district; like most of her peers, she’s never left District 5 at all.  In the center of the square, there’s an old flame with a ring below it, and for wedding ceremonies, the new couple lights the ring on fire.  While the flame burns, there’s dancing and every so often the mayor treats everyone to cider.

But Reaping Days are different.  The shop windows go dark, and the ring of fire stands empty and unlit.  No one cares for celebrating today.

She spots Ray waiting for her in their usual spot just beside the apothecary.  Her steps quicken as she pushes through the crowd, into his waiting arms.

“Everything go okay with the boys?” she asks, taking out the two rolls she’d saved and offering both to him.  He takes only one, motioning for her to keep the other for herself.

“They’re all checked in.”  He holds the roll up, waiting for her to bite into hers before he does the same.  “A few of them were trying to pick fights, but I think they’ll be okay now...”

He trails off, the implied _as long as they aren’t chosen_ hanging in the air between them.  Felicity leans in as he wraps his arm around her waist, and they finish the bakery rolls together in silence.  If they can survive two more Reaping Days, they’ll gather in the square for a far happier occasion, and together, they’ll light the ring of fire.  She’ll even ask the mayor to bring cider.  

But first, they have to make it through two more Reaping Days.  Just two more.  

Ray’s thumb circles her hipbone, her fingers curled into the back of his shirt, as they watch all of District 5 stream into the square, each person registering their presence one after the other with the Peacekeepers.  Those between the ages of twelve to eighteen move to the roped-off area in the center of the square, girls to the right, boys to the left.  Those not of age, or those too old to be reaped, stay on the outskirts, eyes tracking their loved ones in case they are the ones chosen.  

She’s sure each one is repeating the same thought: _I am only one, or four, or twenty, out of thousands.  Put the odds in my favor._

Of course, there’s another way to avoid the Games even if reaped.  But District 5 has never seen a volunteer tribute, and Felicity does not expect to see one in the near future - the rules for volunteers are incredibly strict: an eligible girl may volunteer for another girl, and an eligible boy may volunteer for another boy.  No exceptions.  Those rules favor Districts 1, 2, and 4, the wealthier districts from where the majority of volunteers come.  There, volunteers are named the Careers; they train for the Games in secret and _want_ to be reaped.  In the outer districts, volunteers only want to protect their loved ones, and as such, do not receive favor in the rare instance that they win.  

Felicity remembers her first year eligible for the reapings: one girl had shocked District 6 when she volunteered for her younger sister, but the next year, her sister was reaped yet again, sending shockwaves throughout the districts.  Luckily, the two sisters won their Games - winning even less favor as rare back-to-back victors from a non-Career district - but in the years since, even less people have volunteered for loved ones.  

Felicity understands the thought, however depressing - why volunteer, when your death might not even guarantee their life?  It’s a thought she fortunately - or not - has never needed to contemplate.

Eventually, the influx of new arrivals trickles down, the crowd growing restless as District 5’s Reaping time grows nearer.  Movement near the front of the Judicial Building - and shifting flashes of color onstage - signal that their victors have arrived, as well as Jean Loring, District 5’s escort from the Capitol.

The announcements will start soon.  They ought to go if they don’t want to be punished for arriving late.

Tightening her grip in Ray’s shirt, Felicity lifts herself onto her toes, capturing his mouth in hers.  There is nothing desperate or wild behind the gesture, just the soft feel of his lips beneath hers, the comfort of his hands on her hips.  They have kissed this way a thousand times before now, and she knows their odds - chances are, they will kiss a thousand times more once the day is done.  

Sooner still, if they can find their way to each other in the crowd after the Reaping.  

“We can do this,” Felicity whispers into his mouth, breathing him in before pulling away.  His hands slip from her waist to her hands, engulfing her fingers.  

“We can do this,” he agrees, squeezing once before letting go.  They are careful never to say goodbye.

She holds onto the feeling of her hands in his as she makes her way to the registration table, ignoring the prick of the needle as the Peacekeepers identify her as Felicity Smoak, age seventeen, eligible for two tesserae, provided upon request.

Making her way into her designated waiting area, she notices some of her tutoring students scattered among the back, in the sections where the twelve and thirteen year olds wait.  Thea Queen stands out among the crowd, wearing a navy dress that must be new - unlike the rest of the girls, the color of her dress is still bright.  She waves nervously at Felicity when they catch each other’s gaze, smiling bravely.  Felicity usually tutors her twice a week, but they most likely will not be able to meet again until after the Games.  Because of the mandatory viewing, the schools replace usual lessons with the livestream from the arena.  If the Games go long enough, classes are cancelled altogether, and the students are invited to watch either in the square or at home with their families.  

Most students don’t mind missing classes - the tributes come from _someone’s_ class, after all, and everyone wants to track their progress and hope for the best.  It’s the breadwinners who struggle with the mandatory viewing, forced to forego work and as such, unable to provide food for their families.  Felicity and Donna usually fare better than most - the Queens still pay Donna to clean their house even while at the Capitol.  Still, Felicity always tries to save as much in advance as possible.  

That way, if the unthinkable happens, her mother will still be okay.  Or, if not okay, then at least capable of surviving until the mandatory viewing - and the death count of the Games - has come to an end.    

Felicity joins the other seventeen year olds near the front, sliding in alongside her schoolmates just as Mayor Altman steps up to the podium.  He has been mayor nearly as long as Moira Queen has been a victor, but other than his growing bald patch, his demanding presence never hints at his age.  He conducts the ceremony the same as every year: first, he recites the history of Panem, detailing the natural disasters that brought about the founding of the nation, and the history of the Dark Days, when the 13 Districts rebelled against the Capitol.

Felicity can, and often does, recite the story under her breath alongside him: Twelve Districts were defeated, the thirteenth destroyed, and in the aftermath, the Hunger Games were created, as proof of both “the Capitol’s strength and mercy.”  Her voice, as always, lilts incredulously at the end; the Hunger Games are many things, but _merciful_ is not how she would describe them.

Terrible, probably.  Diabolical, certainly.  

After their history lesson, Mayor Altman reads off the rules for the Hunger Games directly from the Treaty of Treason.  Like their history, it is a lesson they all have been taught since birth.  Once a year, one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen must be selected from each District during public Reaping Ceremonies, to represent their District in a fight to the death.  The last tribute standing is the victor, and he or she will return home to a life of relative ease, fame, and luxury.

For the citizens of the Capitol, the Games are certain entertainment, welcomed each year with a full week of festivities before the tributes are even selected.  In the districts, the dawning of the Games only carries an impending sense of dread.

Felicity catches Ray’s eyes as the mayor drones on mechanically.  Like her, Ray is at the very front of the boys’ group, sequestered with the other eighteen year olds, and he offers her a small nod of encouragement, a brief smirk crossing his face when he catches the movement of her lips as she whispers along to the mayor’s customary speech.

The ceremony ends with the reading of the names of the winners past from District 5.  In the last seventy three years, five people have won from their district - a respectable number outside of Districts 1, 2, and 4 - but only two still live: Moira Queen and her son Oliver.  The expected mentors for District 5’s tributes, they both sit onstage to the side of the mayor’s empty chair.  As always, Moira projects poise, but Oliver only slouches in his seat, disinterested at best.  Oliver Queen, the youngest victor ever seen by Panem, is beloved by the Capitol and spends a great deal of time there, even when there are no Games or celebrations, but Felicity cannot understand his apparent distaste for their home district.  

Her mother has worked for the Queen family for years, and Felicity used to tag along when she was too young to stay home by herself.  The boy who let her take his toys apart before she rebuilt them and who shared sweets with her from the kitchen is not the young man onstage, clearly paying attention to _anything_ but the ceremony happening right in front of him and apparently not caring if all of Panem notices.  He’s so different from her vague childhood memories that sometimes she’s not even sure her memories are accurate.

With the Queens introduced, Mayor Altman finally takes his seat, gesturing for Jean Loring to step up to the podium.  

Draped in a silver sheath, Jean glimmers in the sunlight, a thousand tiny mirrors woven into the fabric of her dress.  This year, she’s trimmed her hair into a strict bob, the silver-white strands narrow alongside her chin.  The charcoal undershirt and tights highlight the severity of her dress and hair, but Felicity can’t help but focus on what her core temperature must be in that outfit.  The afternoon sun beats down from above, and she must be boiling, though she resembles a miniature moon.   

When Jean taps the microphone, her colorless lips pressed together, Felicity amends that thought.  Not a moon.  A factory cog, maybe, or a machine independent of workers.  

“Welcome and happy hunger games,” Jean announces, voice hard.  “The time has now come for us to select one courageous young man and woman each for the honor of representing District 5 in the 73rd Annual Hunger Games.”

She pauses for applause; as usual, none comes.  

“Well then,” she smiles.  “Ladies first.”

She crosses the stage to the glass bowl that holds the girls’ names.  Routing her fingers through the thousands of paper slips, Felicity watches Jean skim past name after name, slips falling from her hand until only one remains.  The slips bear no markers - even though Felicity is closer to the stage than any year previous, she cannot identify the name or the odds of the tribute selected.  

It is the entire set-up behind the Games, Felicity knows - a truly random selection, affected only by one’s odds.  

_May the odds be in their favor._   

With the final selection made, Jean returns to the podium, her steps quick and steady even as time seems to stand still around her.  Nausea settles in the pit of Felicity’s stomach as the entire district waits; the same as every year, the truth they all know finally becomes clear.

Their odds don’t matter at all once a name has been selected.

Unfolding the slip of paper, Jean raises one silver-brushed eyebrow before leaning into the microphone.

“Felicity Smoak.”


	3. Act I: The Hatching; Chapter II

Act I: The Hatching  
Chapter II

 

_“The time has now come for us to select one courageous young man and woman each for the honor of representing District 5 in the 73rd Annual Hunger Games.”_

Oliver hates the Reaping Ceremony. But no part more than this. 

It’s why every year he tries tuning the words out. His usual tricks to avoid paying attention - setting his mind adrift, back to the mountains and his archery range - work reasonably well as he scans the crowd, determined not to see any one person, each face kept nameless, until the moment Jean announces, as always: “Ladies first.” Then he stills, waiting, his hands clenched at his side as he hopes for his sister’s safety.

_“Felicity Smoak.”_

It’s not Thea. 

Relief hits him as Jean lifts her gaze to scan the crowd, eyes alert for the first of District 5’s two tributes. _Not Thea_ continues to pulse, overwhelming thoughts of anyone or anything else, until Jean calls out yet again for Felicity Smoak to join them onstage. Only then do his other senses kick into gear, starting with the realization that this year’s tribute - not _Thea_ , not his sister - is _her_ , the girl he had just seen that morning, laughing and happy and unaware of any danger. 

Felicity Smoak.

Silence deafens the square in the aftermath of the tribute’s name being read. They’d healed him, after his Games, but he still remembers the complete absence of sound he’d suffered in one ear after a bomb had torn apart a quarter of the arena and two tributes; this silence is the same, a hollowed void. Jean prompts the crowd once more, and the girls in the roped-off section near the center of the square come apart slowly, clearing a path between the newly-selected tribute and the stage. Felicity is radiant in her pink dress, sunlight catching on her blonde hair; he’s surprised he hadn’t seen her in the crowd until now. The shock has started to register on her face, though, the moue of her mouth as if she’s forgetting how to breathe. She needs to inhale, inhale and step towards the stage.

Fight now. Panic later. 

Felicity takes her first few steps away from the crowd, her back straight even as her eyes widen with what must be fear behind the frames of her glasses. In her wake, the square stirs to life, murmuring unhappily, eyeing the stage with displeasure. Every year, it’s the same reaction; the only backlash the districts can give against the selection of a particularly young or well-loved tribute. Oliver may rarely spend his time in District 5, but he’s spent enough to know that Felicity Smoak has charmed many in their home district. And so many of the District do know her - she works in the central energy plant, tutors several children from prominent city families, and often picks up the mending for her mother, unforgettable wherever she goes. She is an unthinkable selection for tribute, even to those whose loved ones now are safe, and Oliver agrees completely with their displeasure. 

But no one can argue with the Capitol’s choice. The District knows that. _He_ knows that. Felicity has only just turned into the center aisle when a cry escapes from the boys’ section.

“Felicity - _Felicity!_ ”

Oliver doesn’t look, but he doesn’t have to. He knows exactly who’s calling for her.

The murmurs of the crowd crescendos against the boy’s agonized pleas; two Peacekeepers stride forward to restrain him. Near the back of the crowd, a few women cry out for medical, a sure sign that someone has fainted. Felicity’s mother, he assumes. He’s never heard mention of any other members of the Smoak family. 

“Felicity, _no!_ ” the boy - _Ray_ \- cries. “I volunteer as tribute - let me volunteer! _Felicity!_ Take me instead!”

“Well,” Jean interrupts, her voice cutting through the commotion, “I’m sorry to say, but you can’t volunteer quite yet. Those _are_ the rules. You will still, however, have a chance to volunteer, should you so choose. That may be for the best, _yes_?”

Oliver doesn’t see Ray react; his eyes haven’t strayed from Felicity and her walk to the stage. She never falters, her steps slow and steady until she crosses in front of the boy struggling against the Peacekeepers. She keeps her head held high however, her focus only on the stairs to the stage, but Oliver sees her eyes squeeze shut, the length of an inhale, her shoulders hunching in. It’s as though she doesn’t dare to look away, or even look back.

Just breathe, he wills. Fight now. Panic later. When he blinks, her back has straightened, her steps continuing forward unhindered.

His mother rises when Felicity reaches the stage, and he follows suit. Up close, he can see how she has become ashen, the faded pink of her dress vivid against too-pale skin. When she circles to face the crowd, Oliver also sees that a new hair ribbon, pink and vibrant, has replaced the red one from this morning; he slips one hand into his pants pocket to reassure himself that the red one is still there.

He hadn’t expected to return it to her so soon.

Even when they were children, when she’d often worn her hair in pigtails instead of the high ponytail he now always sees, she’d always matched brightly-colored ribbons to her clothing, the fabric of the ribbon often brighter and more vivid than her well-worn, faded dresses. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed when he’d returned from his Games, and the familiarity, the continuity of it had comforted him. When he’d gone out and about in the District, he’s always been able to spot her immediately thanks to those brightly-colored hair ribbons.

His stomach drops when he imagines the District without them. 

“Congratulations,” Jean professes, holding a charcoal-draped hand out for Felicity to shake. Gripping her palm above both their heads, Jean turns back to the crowd. “Let’s have a round of applause for our newest tribute!”

Most years, the district musters a half-hearted response to sending their own to near-certain death, but today, the citizens of District 5 choose silence instead. For a moment, that same absence of sound again mutes the square, and then, in the center, he sees a light flicker to life.

The unlit flame above the ring of fire flickers once, twice, three times, and then steadily burns. It’s an old District 5 tradition, but it’s one, because of his time in the Capitol, he himself hasn’t seen since his own father’s funeral. The flame represents love and respect, much like the ring of fire that sits below, but unlike the ring’s place at weddings and other joyful celebrations, lighting the eternal flame is a sign of mourning. 

A signal of goodbye.

District 5 stands silent before the stage, and though their murmurs have stopped, the fire says everything they cannot say out loud. Pulling her hand from Jean’s, Felicity presses her palms to her sides and holds her shoulders stiff, acknowledging, if not accepting, her District’s farewell. 

She understands. It is a ceremony District 5 rarely uses for those still alive to see it. But District 5 has already lost so many of their young and well-loved to the Games, and Felicity is old enough to know that she has just been added to their ranks.

He keeps his arms at his side, in respect; his mother does the same. But he imagines neither Jean nor the Capitol audience watching live understands the significance or District 5’s quiet protest.

If the District is lucky, the president will not understand either. 

“Wonderful,” Jean observes as the crowd begins to shift anew. “And now that the lighting’s improved, it’s time for us to select our male tribute!”

As Jean returns to the glass bowls, focusing on the slips that hold the boys’ names, Oliver watches Felicity’s shoulders sag, hears her slow, shaky inhale and the choked sob that follows. But even though he can hear her sniffle, no tears fall, only wide eyes that remain wet behind the lens of her glasses. He’s impressed at how she’s held her composure, waiting until the cameras had trained themselves elsewhere, and even her shaky breaths have evened out by the time Jean crosses back to the podium, the name of the male tribute in hand. If only for Felicity’s sake, he hopes the boy she was with earlier isn’t chosen.

Smoothing away any creases in the slip of paper, Jean reads the name to herself before leaning into the microphone. She pauses, ensuring all eyes direct their attention away from Felicity and back to her, a smile curling at her lips before the announcement falls: 

“Slade Wilson.”

This time, no sullen hush falls over the square, no displeased murmurs spreading throughout the crowd; instead, the boys in the roped-off area near the stage part without complaint, and Oliver knows, when no protests interrupt, that in this one sense at least, Felicity has been spared. The boy - _Ray_ \- will not fight alongside her in the Games. Slade Wilson will be her companion instead.

He’ll admit they don’t know each other well now. They were school companions and friends, once, but that was before - 

After his Games, Oliver hadn’t held onto much of his life from _before_. 

A head taller than most boys his age, Slade Wilson appears better-suited for the Games than Oliver ever did. Well-muscled, well-defined, the other boys gladly scatter out of his way as he strides to the stage, his face an emotionless mask. The lack of hesitation would suggest that Slade does not fear the Games; the fact that Slade looks to be an experienced fighter means that he should know better than to assume strength equals success. 

Just because Felicity cannot fight does not mean the other tributes cannot as well. He hadn’t been the only tribute to train in anticipation of reaping. 

The truth of that statement slams into him like dead weight. When District 5 had said their goodbyes and Felicity had accepted, it had been because they’d all known the truth behind the gesture. Felicity Smoak, with her bright mind and blonde hair, has no idea how to fight. 

She will very likely not make it out of the Games. 

Signs of commotion disrupt his thoughts; Slade had finally reached the stage edge and had begun his ascent, until Ray had begun to struggle again, glaring down the other boy. Two more Peacekeepers join the others to hold him back, but Slade does not back away, waiting to see what Ray can - or is willing - to do. He’s careful not to shout, Oliver notes, a smart move in lieu of Jean’s offer, significantly smarter than trying to break seventy-three years of rules. By saying nothing at all, nothing he says can be misconstrued. 

They will never mistake him for a volunteer this way, but Oliver sees the new stiffness to Felicity’s stance and thinks she must be glad; she must know her odds, and he cannot imagine she would want her - _whatever_ \- to risk death in the Games alongside her. Alone, she can still hold onto hope of winning; with two to think of, she holds none. But at the memory of her easy embrace, the laughter in her voice as she’d kissed the boy, Oliver struggles to imagine her truly alone, with no one she trusts against the Games. 

Normally, his mother takes the female tributes, claiming he has enough of a reputation. This year, he promises, he’ll mentor her. She won’t go into the Games alone. 

Slade Wilson makes his way up the stairs and across the stage, evidently deciding the boy is neither threat nor escape from the Games. Circling next to Jean, Slade faces the crowd from her side, mirroring Felicity’s position. He towers over both women, his bulk enough to crush the two of them should he dare. 

“Well,” Jean announces, drawing all attention back to her. The mirrors of her sheath refract onto Slade and Felicity, burying Felicity’s smaller form in light, shadowing Slade’s face when he blocks the mirrors on his side from the sun. “Congratulations, Mr. Wilson -”

The deviations should have finished; Oliver knows how the ceremony will end. Jean will thank the tributes for their contribution to the Games and wish the odds to be ever in their favor, only then reminding District 5 that they may watch the Games either from the square or their own homes, but viewing, as always, is mandatory. 

Instead, Slade leans into the microphone, curling his hand over hers. “Thank you, Jean,” he announces, voice smooth as sandpaper. “When I say this year District 5 will _finally_ have another victor, I want all of you to listen.” 

Oliver thinks he’s done, but instead Slade grins rakishly before adding. “I keep my promises.” 

He moves back after that, allowing Jean to resume her speech, only slightly more rushed than Oliver’s ever heard her speak before. As she offers final platitudes, directing District 5 through the national anthem, Oliver tunes back out, this time trying to make sense of all that’s just happened, his mind all too present, far from the forest and his archery range, where he would very much prefer to be.

 

xxx

 

_“We can do this.”_

Laughter grows into hysteria, bubbling from her ribcage, her hands clinging tight without the pressure to stand straight and unfeeling. Jean had escorted them behind the stage after the final announcements, where Oliver had then led her to one of the Judicial building’s many meeting rooms. There, the Peacekeepers had locked her in, certain that Felicity Smoak, tribute for District 5, would not be leaving without their knowledge. That is the plan for her now, she knows. The Peacekeepers will keep watch until she leaves District 5 - and all the Districts will watch as she arrives in the Capitol. They will watch her spar with the other tributes; they will watch her enter the Games, and then they will watch her fight, until - 

Felicity knows her odds of winning. When she fights, the Games will continue on while the Districts watch. 

Her laughter collapses into sobs; falling into the memory of Ray screaming, the hush that had fallen over the District as they’d lit the memorial flame - bidding her goodbye as if the Games had already been played, her death a foregone conclusion.

And it was, wasn’t it? They’d already hurried her offstage after the Reaping Ceremony - waiting only for the selection of the male tribute and the singing of the national anthem, its chorus echoing as tributes, mentors, and escort had been ushered into the Judicial Building. And now she’s been locked away, left to bid her final goodbyes, until they can escort her away again, always under the threat of supervision. 

They will take her to the Capitol first, of course. But by week’s end, she’ll enter the Games. All tributes do.

And like most tributes, she will not leave.

The lock clicking open, the door swings back, revealing the District’s Head Peacekeeper - Rob Scott - and her mother, dishevelled and barely standing, her entire form slumped into his. Donna straightens though when she sees Felicity, tearing herself out of his grasp so she can fall into her daughter’s arms. She’s shaking, but her arms trap Felicity to Donna’s chest like bands of steel, the smell of clean laundry and lavender filling her nose. 

“My baby,” Donna cries, tightening both hands in the back of Felicity’s dress, tangling fingers in the buttons. “Oh god, my baby, my baby girl…”

Slipping her own arms around her mother’s waist, Felicity leans into her mother’s hold, running her fingers up and down Donna’s back. For several minutes, they just hold each other as Donna weeps, murmuring cries into Felicity’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, mom,” Felicity whispers, fighting back her own tears, cradling her mother to her chest, “It’ll be okay. Ray’s safe; he’ll still take care of you. I know it’s not the same, but it’ll be okay, I promise…”

She doesn’t quite know _what_ she’s promising - not to win, that’s for certain. That’s not a promise she can keep. Donna cries harder, clinging to Felicity with even more strength, her nails biting through the dress’ fabric. 

“You were so close,” Donna sobs, Felicity’s shoulder muffling her words, “So close, baby, so close. I can’t… I can’t lose you too.”

The doors swing back open, another Peacekeeper lingering in the entrance - their time is up. 

Felicity pulls back, a hands space between them now, their hands still tangled together. Donna’s eyes are blotchy and rimmed with red, the most emotion Felicity has ever seen her display over the Games. She needs to be strong for her mother, she knows. They don’t have much time left.

“Mom - ”

“No, don’t, baby,” Donna demands, pulling Felicity back for one final hug. “I love you so, so much. I need you to know that.”

Rob comes up behind the other Peacekeeper, ready to remove Donna by force if necessary. They won’t like it, she knows, but they’ll do it if need be. They have a schedule to keep. 

Felicity smiles bravely for her mother, letting go of her hands. “I love you too, mom.” 

“My baby,” Donna cries, leaning into him as he leads her away, “My beautiful baby girl.”

She doesn’t look back. 

Inhaling, Felicity braces herself for the next goodbye, certain of who she’ll see. But it isn’t Ray - the only other face she’d been expecting - who walks into view when the doors swing back open. 

It’s Shado.

Her friend is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Although they’ve never been close, they’ve always shared more than a few similarities: old acquaintances of the Queen family, residents of the Glades, until a wealthy family had taken Shado in, peers who’d taken on far more than most in District 5 to help make ends meet - Felicity splitting her time between tutoring and her work study at the central energy plant, Shado studying to be District healer as soon as she’d turned eighteen. Thanks to the Queens, they’d been close as children; unlike Oliver, Shado had never stopped reaching out to Felicity once they’d reached their reaping years. Of course, between their many obligations, their time had been limited as of late to the path to and from the Queen mansion - Shado visiting as a family friend; Felicity going to tutor Thea. 

It had been easier, in a way, letting their friendship sputter in strength over the years. One less person to worry over during Reaping Day, though Shado is two years past ineligible. Caring for those of age always carries so much risk, even if the concern never truly turns off - hadn’t today proved as much? 

Felicity’s grateful the damage won’t extend past Ray and her mother. They both will hurt if - _when_ \- she leaves, but it’s pain they’ve dealt with before. 

They stay silent as the doors swing shut, neither moving to embrace the other. Nothing Shado says will make the Games easier, but Felicity still appreciates her presence. The memorial flame had been a sign of mourning; Shado’s presence said she, _Felicity_ , would be missed. Shado had only passed the reaping age two years ago, and wiping away her lingering tears with a single hand, Felicity’s glad her friend was never chosen. When Shado looks at her with nothing but kindness in her gaze, it’s easy to see how wonderful of a healer she is. In the face of Shado’s calm composure, Felicity has nearly stopped sobbing; she knows future tributes will only benefit from her friend’s comfort. 

“Don’t give up yet, Felicity,” Shado finally demands, reaching out to grab her hands.

A shiver runs down Felicity’s spine at the thought of victors past, their hulking weight, their bulging muscles. “All the other tributes are going to be so much stronger than me - and bigger too.” She needs to hold onto reality. Logic, calculations, those are her strengths, not imagining all the terrible ways she could die in the Games.

“The Careers have been training for years,” she rambles, her breaths coming shorter and shorter, “plus most of the other districts focus on labor, and that’s what the Gamemakers will really want. I mean, they won’t want _labor_ , the Games aren’t going to be won based on who cuts down trees best, but Shado, I can’t even _lift_ an axe - I haven’t exactly tried to recently, but still, everyone knows it’s not really my thing. There’s no way…”

“Strength isn’t everything,” Shado interrupts, stepping closer. “And no amount of training can account for every possible scenario.”

“But…”

“No, listen to me.” Shado leans in, tightening her grip on Felicity’s hands, her gaze insistent. “You are smarter than they are. You can find a way to outthink them.”

This is not the goodbye Felicity had expected. In fact, Felicity doesn’t think Shado came to say goodbye at all.

“I don’t…” Felicity releases a low breath. Her voice shakes, hoarse and unsteady, nothing like her confidence before the ceremony. “I don’t know if I can.”

“The Games cannot make you something you are not,” Shado insists, squeezing Felicity’s forearms once more before letting go. “You have a survivor inside of you, Felicity; you _can_ survive.”

Before Felicity can answer, the Peacekeepers return, their presence announcing the end of their time. Shado says no more; instead, she nods to Felicity with a smile before leaving the room, the same gesture they’ve made a thousand times before while crossing paths in the streets. Felicity knows Shado hopes - or expects - they will repeat the same gesture after the Games.

_“No amount of training can account for every possible scenario.”_

Felicity knows her odds though. She knows the calculations. 

_Their odds don’t matter once a name has been selected._

 

xxx

 

For the first time since his own Games, Oliver pays close attention during the hour the newly-selected tributes receive to say goodbye to their loved ones. He sits with his mother on the plush sofa in the foyer of the Judicial Building, while Jean sits across from them in one of the large arm chairs. The bright yellow fabric might give off a sense of cheerfulness and hope if not for the fact that this level of the building is only used twice a year: on Reaping Day and then six months later during the Victory Parade.

Two Peacekeepers stand guard by the double doors that lead to the side entrance of the Judicial Building, from which they will depart for the train station in only an hour’s time, as an additional line of defense in case some scared tribute manages to slip past the Peacekeepers guarding the door of their assigned room. This is Oliver’s seventh year as a mentor, and although he is certain almost every tribute has _wanted_ to escape - himself included - no one has ever tried. He remembers thinking about it, but getting past the Peacekeepers would have been impossible.

The Capitol always sends additional Peacekeepers for Reaping Day, different from those who remain in District 5 year-round. District 5’s Peacekeepers are well-known and likely to overlook certain violations, such as the trade in less-than-legal goods that takes place in the back streets of the Glades, if only because they themselves benefit from such acts. These Peacekeepers come only to maintain order on Reaping Day and are another force entirely. They would never kill a tribute - even one attempting escape - as the Capitol would be displeased with the need for a new selection, but they would never hesitate to inflict force on the escapee.

When the choice lies between entering the arena as is or entering the arena already injured, the tributes find there had never really been a choice at all. Hope, however small, is a funny thing.

A group of Peacekeepers lead in the first two visitors - Felicity’s mother and Slade’s younger brother, Joe - and Oliver watches as Rob Scott supports Donna Smoak to the room at the end of the hall. He’s sorry to admit that he doesn’t really know much about the woman who has cleaned their house for as long as he can remember, and most of what he does know predates his own Games. Donna has always been a diligent worker, careful to keep to herself; the rare times Oliver has heard her speak have been to her daughter.

Donna’s body shakes with quiet sobs. If not for Rob leading her, she most likely still wouldn’t be standing. 

“She wasn’t always like this,” Moira observes quietly as the door swings inwards, Donna disappearing inside. Oliver doesn’t acknowledge his mother, understanding from her low tone that she wants no one else to overhear; it’s an understanding built from years mentoring in the Games. “She was a few years behind me in school; her parents owned the clothing store and her mother was the seamstress. But our parents were friends, so we knew each other long before she married Felicity’s father. That’s when she moved from the city, out to the Glades.” 

Moira sighs, folding her hands in her lap. “You know, I don’t even remember her husband’s name. He was a geologist, and Felicity must get her intelligence from him, but when she comes to work with Thea, sometimes all I can see is the Donna I knew. Everyone always loved Donna, very much like they love Felicity.”

Oliver nods, swallowing this new information. It should have been obvious that his mother had known Donna Smoak prior to hiring her. Moira doesn’t invite many people into their home, choosing instead to go to others on her own terms, placing her in the position of control. It’s a feeling he understands all too well; after the arena, all he had wanted was a place where he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone but himself and his family, where no one else would be watching and there’d be no fear of people he didn’t trust.

Their house in the Victor’s Village may not be exactly that, but then, that’s why he escapes to the mountains whenever he can.

Oliver watches the clock as the minutes pass, trying not to wonder too hard at the goodbye between Donna and Felicity Smoak. His own farewell had been difficult - Thea had clung to him, tears in her eyes as she begged their mother to bring him back. Moira had never dropped her poise, eyes determined as she had assured him that he not only could win, but that she would do everything in her power to bring him home. Her beautiful boy, she’d called him.

He hardly remembers the feel of her arms around him, the tears staining Thea’s face. Even in the arena, he’d struggled to recall the last few moments he’d spent with his family; the day of his reaping a complete blur in his memory.

Not today, though. Nor every reaping since then. He can’t ever forget those, no matter how much he tries. 

When fifteen minutes have passed, the Peacekeepers standing guard leave their post to drag a near-hysterical Donna Smoak from the room. From this distance, Oliver cannot make out her exact words, but the sounds of her cries carry through the hall, more telling than the words themselves could ever be. 

“These next few weeks will be difficult for her,” Moira says, her voice not quite as soft as before, but still for his ears alone. Her eyes narrow to the end of the hallway, down where Donna Smoak has just disappeared. “From the moment your children are born, you worry what the world might do to them. It’s _unimaginable_ … to watch your child go through that. To know at any second, to expect… The week you were in the arena was the worst week of my life.”

 _Worse than my own Games_ goes unspoken, hanging thick in the air between them.

His mother does not get a chance to say more, however, before they spot Shado walking towards them, Thea at her side. When they get closer to the foyer, Thea breaks into a run, dashing straight to the sofa where he and Moira sit and climbing up between them, curling into Oliver’s side as she wraps her arms around his neck.

“I’m here to see Felicity,” Shado explains, “so I thought Thea might like to spend a few extra minutes with you before you leave.”

“Of course,” Moira agrees, and Shado nods before walking purposefully down the hall, to the room where Felicity waits, just as Joe, Slade’s younger brother, is carried, kicking and screaming from the next door down.

Against his side, he can feel Thea take deep breaths as she tries to stop sniffling. He’s drawn back to seven years ago, when she did the same after his own reaping.

“You have to help her, Ollie.” She pulls back from his embrace, looking up at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “Promise?”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Moira vows. “But Thea darling, you know we can’t promise anything. The Games are unpredictable.”

“You promised Ollie would come back, mom,” she accuses, her voice muffled as she buries her head against his chest.

“Thea,” Oliver says, wrapping his arms around her, wishing he could protect her from the weeks to come, from the next six years of reapings, that he could promise to keep her and everyone she cares about safe. He won’t make promises he can’t keep, but he can do this: “I promise I will mentor her myself. I will do everything I can for her.”

There’s no need to tell her that mentoring Felicity had already been his plan. 

“People will like her,” Thea insists, sniffling, but his promise perks her up enough to look at him with hope in her eyes. “Just like they liked you! You can get her sponsors that way!”

“We always work to get _both_ of our tributes sponsors,” Moira reminds her gently, guiding Oliver’s thoughts away from Thea’s suggestions. “Oliver, if you’d like - for _Thea_ \- to work with Felicity, then I will mentor Slade.”

“I would,” he agrees. From the way Moira’s eyes narrow in suspicion, he suspects he’d agreed a little _too_ quickly. He’d thought he’d need to broach the subject with his mother on the train, after Felicity and Slade had moved into their rooms, but now the matter’s been handled.

“Well then, I suppose that’s settled.” Moira nods, lifting her hand to run through Thea’s hair. “We’ll still have to talk strategy, of course. Do we know if Slade and Felicity know each other? If they do, an alliance may be useful.”

“They do,” Thea chimes in, squirming at his side. “Slade and Joe live in the Community Home with Ray, and he’s one of Shado’s friends.”

“We can pitch it to them on the train,” Oliver says. Although he doesn’t know Slade well anymore, Thea is right in that Slade and Shado are friends, so they do have that friendship still in common. Shado is one of his own oldest and dearest friends, and when they were younger, briefly, had been more. The Games had changed that, but they could not shake the foundation of their friendship, which emerged as strong as ever.

Friendship is as much as he asks for these days; he wouldn’t even begin to know what _more_ might entail, anyway.

Oliver isn’t sure that an alliance with Slade is the best idea; yet, it may be Felicity’s best chance at even _having_ a chance. Anyone vulnerable - anyone who cannot fight - will be the first targets of the Games, especially when the Career Pack will likely still be hunting as one, slaughtering anyone they perceive as weak. “Only if they’re open to it.”

His mother understands strategy best anyway, and he owes it to Felicity to try anything if it means she’ll survive. It’s what he’d promised Thea.

He promises _himself_ the same.

“Ollie,” Thea prods, her voice miserable and quiet as she looks up at him. She shifts only slightly, and the light catches on the phoenix pin Moira had given her just before they’d left for the Reaping Ceremony. “Is it… always going to be like this?”

“I hope not, Speedy,” he replies. It’s the best answer he has, but the reality is that for the next six years at least, it _will_ probably be like this. Thea will always be at risk for being reaped, or she will always have to watch as her friends and classmates are reaped instead. The only difference if she turns eighteen - _when_ she turns eighteen - is how the helplessness will grow, as children, each year younger than the last, replace playmates as tributes, until one day it’s not friends or siblings in that roped-off area, but sons and daughters instead.

Oliver’s glad he hasn’t reached that point. A part of him hopes he dies before he does. 

Thea nods, resolute, reminding him yet again just how much she’s gone through in only twelve years, before she wipes at her eyes and flings herself back against his chest. “It’s not fair,” she declares shakily. “It’s not _fair_.”

“Thea,” Moira warns. Oliver wants to agree, but he’s not sure with which: the protest or the warning.

Their mother’s reprimand goes unnoticed, however, as the Peacekeepers knock on Felicity’s door, letting Shado know the half hour’s been marked and her time is up. There are no visitors to remove from Slade’s room - not since his brother - but Shado only nods to him and his mother as she passes from Felicity’s door to Slade’s. Of course, he’d temporarily forgotten; Shado is friends with both tributes. In their distraction, Thea plants a quick kiss on his forehead, then Moira’s, before dashing off to the Peacekeepers stationed outside Felicity’s door. She must have made arrangements to be on the visitors list because instead of barring her, they usher her right inside.

They will still have a minute to say goodbye to Thea before they race off to the train station - as if the train might leave without them - but it makes Oliver uneasy, how speedily Thea had darted away, not giving time for their mother’s warning to sink in.

Moira’s right, of course; Thea can’t be overheard saying things like _it’s not fair_ in reference to the Games. It will only make her a target and put her at risk. But in spite of the risks, Oliver can’t help but agree with his sister.

It’s not fair. It never has been.

 

xxx

 

After the Peacekeepers usher Shado out the door, Felicity sinks down into the room’s only couch, steeling herself for the minutes still to come. Half of her allotted time for goodbyes has passed, and she knows she needs to get her thoughts in order, to think of everything she wants - _needs_ \- to tell Ray when he comes.

The doors swing back open, but once again, Ray isn’t behind them. Instead, it’s Thea Queen standing beside the Peacekeeper guards.

Thea doesn’t wait for the doors to close behind her before rushing across the room. She flings herself next to Felicity, the cobalt of her dress vivid against the worn fabric of the couch. But for all her fidgeting, Thea waits for the Peacekeepers to latch the doors shut before speaking, her gaze just to the right of Felicity’s face. Thea is another unexpected - but not unwelcome - visit. Felicity has watched Thea mature nearly her entire life, and has never imagined she’d need to say goodbye. At the end of each tutoring session, Thea always flings her arms around Felicity’s neck and insists she she stay just a little bit longer. 

Reminding herself of her mother, of the memorial flame and the watching District, Felicity holds back tears. She won’t be able to stay this time, no matter how much she wishes. 

“You know,” Thea starts, knocking her heels against the front panels of the couch, “this is the same room they brought Ollie to when he was reaped.” Dropping her gaze, she picks at a spot where the cushion between them needs patching. “I sat here with Mom, and I asked him, _begged_ him to come back home to me.”

Thea pauses, sniffling, and wraps slim fingers around Felicity’s hand. Felicity squeezes back, for the first time, at a loss for words: this is the second time Thea Queen will see someone she cares for taken by the Games, but Felicity is not Oliver.

She cannot promise that she will come home. She cannot make that promise and keep it. 

“Felicity...” Thea whispers, and Felicity knows what’s coming. Oliver may have come back, but Felicity and Thea’s brother could not be more different. He - he _killed_ everyone he came in contact with; he came back and boasted of those victories. She does not think she could ever do that. 

She doesn’t think she _wants_ to win, if it means doing that. 

“You have to come back,” Thea begs, turning to face her. “You _have to_ , Felicity, please, you _have to_ win!” 

Her odds, Felicity could argue - the simple reality is that 24 tributes enter the area and only one of them will leave. But that won’t matter to Thea. 

_“No amount of training can account for every possible scenario.”_

It hadn’t mattered to Shado either. 

_“Strength isn’t everything. You are smarter than they are.”_

It isn’t much, she knows. The last victor who tried to outsmart the Games had nearly gone mad before slaughtering the rest.

“ _Please_ , Felicity.”

But...a part of her can’t help but rebel against simply _accepting_ her death, the same as her District and her mother. She can’t just accept things; she never has before. It’s how she and Ray have believed in their odds each year; it’s how she fought to be an engineer instead of a factory worker only because she lived in the Glades.

She knows her odds, but - maybe sheer strength and power aren’t the only ways to win. 

“Okay,” Felicity breaths out. “I’ll _try_. I promise, Thea that I will try.” 

A smile breaking out across her face, Thea flings herself into Felicity’s arms, whispering thank you’s into the cusp of her shoulder. For someone who’s only arms and legs, she’s surprisingly heavy, sinking the two of them further back into the couch. Felicity’s only just returned Thea’s grip, not quite best sure how to hold her, when Thea pulls back again just as suddenly, her fingers struggling to unhook a brooch from the collar of her dress. Felicity reaches out to help, but Thea only swats her hands away. Yelping when the clasp releases, Thea smiles triumphantly, holding out her prize.

“Take it,” she demands, her palm curling around her gift. It isn’t quite a brooch, Felicity amends - that description too stuffy - but a golden circle from which a bird emerges, both symbols backed by a pin. Thea’s hand shoves her offering closer, her smile folding into wide eyes and a trembling lip, a reminder that for all her bravado, Thea is still barely past childhood. 

Tracing the circle with her index finger, Felicity notices tiny, golden flames falling from the bird’s wings and tail - not a bird then at all, but a phoenix, like in the stories that had preceded the Dark Days. Felicity’s never seen something so beautiful - or so old. Not much remains from the times before the Games; most relics - the few that weren’t destroyed in punishment for the rebellion - are locked away in Capitol museums. “Thea,” she murmurs reverently, “I can’t accept this.”

“Mom gave it to me this morning,” Thea scoffs, pressing her palm into Felicity’s. “She said it would protect me from being reaped.” She pulls away, leaving the pin in Felicity’s hand. “Stupid, I know. But….then again, they didn’t choose me.”

 _They chose you_ hangs unspoken between them, and another puzzle pieces clicks into place.

“What happened today wasn’t your fault,” Felicity says, placing her free hand on Thea’s knee. She waits until Thea meets her gaze before continuing. “They didn’t choose you - that’s a _good_ thing. But that doesn’t mean that you chose me instead.”

Felicity would never ask anyone to make that sort of choice for her. When the shock wears off more, she knows she’ll be more furious that Ray so much as _tried_. 

Thea nods, a tentative smile not quite there. “I still want you to keep it,” Thea insists, a Queen in every way but victory, “I wore it, and I didn’t get reaped. Maybe if you wear it, it’ll help you win the Games. Or, I don’t know, brighten up your outfits. Those interview clothes have to be flashy, right? Ollie always looks like such a peacock up there.”

This time, Felicity’s laugh is the one just shy of tentative, her struggle with the pin’s old clasp hiding the tears in her eyes. She’s never worn anything but hand-me-downs and stitched-together remnants; she can’t even imagine wearing the glamour of the Capitol. She’s suddenly glad she took a bath that morning, though she’s sure it won’t be enough to make her fit for Capitol couture. The door to the room swings open before she can answer, Rob interrupting with a firm, “Miss Queen?”

“Thank you,” Thea whispers, pulling Felicity in for one final hug, “I believe in you!” 

Before Felicity can remind Thea that she only promised to _try_ , and not to raise her hopes, Thea bounds out the door, the Head Peacekeeper vanishing with her. Only fifteen minutes remain on the clock. Standing back up, Felicity watches the door, certain of the next visitor.

Her _last_ visitor.

The minutes drag on as she keeps watch, eyes flickering between clock and the door, the steady tick of time against the sole goodbye she will give.

Her mother hadn’t wanted one. Shado and Thea had refused to hear it. But Ray - Ray, who has been waiting for her; Ray, for whom she had planned to wait - he deserves to hear those words from her. 

She may be able to do this, but only _may_. And she knows - they both do - how much it hurts when the people you care about leave without a word.

Aware of her own tendency to let her brain run away from her, she plans out carefully, painstakingly, what she wants to say to him, what she needs him to know. But it’s all for naught.

When the door swings open, she’s on her feet, barreling across the room and into his arms, sending them both back into the door, barely shut in time. Her carefully planned words fly from her mind as he hitches her up by her legs, clinging her against him, pressing his forehead down to hers. The next few minutes they lose to touch, his hands lifting beneath her dress, her fingers carding through the hair at his neck. _These_ kisses are sloppy, warm, open-mouthed, his tongue running against hers, her lips sucking at his. 

They never say goodbye. 

They both open their eyes when she pulls away, panting. “Ray,” she breathes, sliding back to the floor as they finally move away from the door; his hands never leave her waist. “Ray, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry - ”

He kisses her again, his hands tangling in her hair, her lips still insisting apologies into his mouth. She’s sorry they didn’t make it; she’s sorry he tried to volunteer; she’s sorry she can’t keep their promise and their dream, that she can try to survive, but they _both_ know, in the end, the odds are never really in their favor.

“Felicity,” his voice cracks, that same, broken desperation she’d heard during the ceremony. “Felicity, you can do this. _We_ can do this.”

 _You have to do this_ hovers on his tongue, she knows, but he’d never demand that of her. They’ve always worked in can be’s and possibilities; they’ve never made promises without knowing for certain that they could follow through. 

“I still want it,” she tells him instead, a dream in lieu of a promise. “We haven’t worked this hard to not - to quit - the house, and a life, with you, and my mom, and I don’t know how, but I want to be here, with _you_ , and I’m going to fight - ”

Moving his hands back from her waist, he intertwines their fingers, anchoring them together. “Okay.” He dips his head back down, aligning their eyes. She can still see tears on his lashes and wonders where hers have gone. “Felicity. If you’re still fighting, then I’m still fighting. We can do this.”

He enunciates each word clear and slow; their old, familiar mantra, remade and repurposed.

“We can do this,” she agrees, her voice still shaking as another thought hits her. “Ray, I need you to - you have to promise, promise me, you’ll take care of my mom still; please, you have to - ”

“Felicity.” Ray clenches her fingers, pulling them up between them. “I promise. She’s practically my mom, right? And I - I was thinking, you know, a house in the Victor’s Village could be nice. It’ll be a little far, but maybe your mom could get a whole floor to herself?”

Felicity squeezes her eyes shut, a wet laugh escaping. Ray always knows just what to say, even when they’re both falling apart. His lips find hers again, this time their kisses slow and languid, their hands pressing together between them. 

Neither of them hear the door swing back open.

“Time,” a Peacekeeper announces, one of the task force sent by the Capitol. Felicity pulls back, but Ray doesn’t let go, holding tight to her hands.

“Felicity,” Ray calls, even as the Peacekeepers yank back his arms, tearing apart their grip. “ _Felicity_. I love you, Felicity! I love you!”

He’s not shouting, not weeping like he did in the square. His voice, his face, they are all set with nothing but grim determination. 

“Felicity! _I love you!_ ” 

Rob catches the door before it swings shut; she can only watch as they force Ray down the hall, past the foyer where Oliver and Moira Queen wait, further and further away until, finally, he is out of her view. 

“I love you too,” she finally answers, a whisper, the tears that hadn’t come stinging at her eyes. Holding nothing but air now, she brings her hands down to her sides, straightening her back.

She had said it too late, too quietly, and she hopes he knows, even if he couldn’t hear.

Adjusting her glasses so she can wipe at her eyes, she inhales, exhales, struggling to hold on to her composure.

Her hour has passed. There is nothing left now but for her to go to the Capitol.

 

xxx

 

Silence settles over the foyer once the doors close behind Thea. Oliver watches as Moira uses the last of their peace to review the last-minute additions to her files - new potential sponsors she had scoped out last year - before finally sighing and placing the files away in her briefcase.

“I’ll need to think about a new tutor for Thea,” Moira states, ever practical, before her eyes flutter close, a twinge of guilt passing between them before she continues. “I’m afraid it will be quite difficult. Thea won’t want anyone else; she’ll put up a fight…” Sighing again, weariness edging her tone, she repins him with her gaze, reaching out for Oliver’s hand. “Are you sure, dear - about mentoring Felicity? I understand if you would rather work with Slade… ?”

Oliver shakes his head resolutely. “No. I promised Thea.”

“Of course. As long as you’re sure,” Moira replies, eyes narrowing but adding no further comment; instead she diplomatically changes the subject. “You didn’t happen to see who turned on the flame, did you?”

“The switch is hidden from the square. I don’t think you can see it from the stage.” He keeps his answers vague, aware of what his mother is really asking. 

_Is someone at risk for punishment if and when the president discovers what the flame really means?_

“That is a shame,” Moira says, each word strung together with care. “It’s an overcast day, so whoever decided to turn it on showed great forethought.”

“I agree.”

Before they can discuss the matter more, Jean chooses to come join them and review the schedule for the next two days. There’s no need, of course; the schedule has never changed significantly, and both Oliver and Moira receive their own daily schedules from the Head Gamemaker from the moment the tributes enter the arena. It is an excellent distraction, however, to listen as Jean matter-of-factly states their upcoming obligations. Thea interrupts only briefly to hug them both goodbye before leaving alongside Shado - they’ll be in touch at scheduled intervals during the weeks to come, but Oliver never know how long his presence will be required in the Capitol. It could be months until he’s allowed to return home.

The tolling of the bells finally signal the hour’s end; the Judicial Building’s clocks serving their central need apart from monitoring the clocks of the factory workers. 

Just as the Peacekeepers position themselves to escort the tributes to the train station, Oliver hears commotion from inside Felicity’s room. Two Peacekeepers - one from the Capitol’s task force and one Oliver recognizes as Rob Scott - drag Ray away from the room, even when he stops struggling against their hold, his only focus Felicity as he calls out to her, his words echoing in the otherwise quiet hallway.

_“Felicity! I love you!”_

No commotion comes from Slade’s room, however. Slade has no final visitor.

The hour of goodbyes now come and gone, Felicity and Slade are marched by the Peacekeepers from their respective rooms, an escort at one side, a tribute at the other. Oliver rises, and Moira and Jean follow suit, as they both approach. Slade walks proudly, relaxed and fearless; Felicity holds herself firm and stiff as she adjusts her glasses and wipes tears from her eyes.

No one speaks as the Peacekeepers lead them down the steps and out the double doors, the well-lit hallways dim in the face of the overcast afternoon. The usual car waits to take them to the train station, and both Slade _and_ Felicity hesitate until Jean motions towards the back before climbing into the driver’s seat herself. 

They could technically walk, the train station only a short distance away, but Oliver knows the protocol. Cars are a rarity in District 5, so the tributes are suitably surprised - though it’s a mere trinket compared to the what the Capitol holds - and similar to the extra Peacekeepers, it is a safety precaution. The tributes never run, but it is a risk the Capitol would rather avoid. Slade, at least, expresses interest, questioning Jean about vehicle standards in the Capitol and different motor capabilities. Oliver sits beside Felicity in the back seat, Slade on her other side, Moira joining Jean up front. Slade attempts to corral him into the conversation, asking if Oliver drives and chuckling appropriately when Moira drops Oliver’s preference for roofless vehicles, but it’s clear Oliver’s mind is elsewhere. Out the window, he knows his mother must assume, back in the mountains, with his archery range. 

But to see the mountains, Oliver’s gaze must pass Felicity; Felicity, who is careful to look everywhere _but_ the road in front of them. Her eyes flicker between the familiar landmarks of their home district - the shops in the center square, the tightly-packed buildings of the city district, the sloping dirt paths that lead to the Glades. Her head rotates so she can linger on the last sight, the wisps of her hair brushing his cheek. If he follows her line of sight, past the Glades and its winding alleys, he’ll see the river, snaking its way up the mountainside, along which lies his archery range, his safe spot, his haven in the woods. 

He keeps his gaze on her instead, just the corner of his eye. Behind the lens of her glasses, her stare is wide and determined. She’s remembering, he realizes, understanding as few tributes he’s seen do, that she might never again come back to the home she’s always known.

When these Games are done, he’ll be able to return to his place in the woods, hidden among the mountains with his archery range. He can’t promise her the same safe return. 

The engine grumbles as they drive away from the Glades, only minutes away from the train station at the city’s edge. Then, together they will board the train and travel towards the Capitol. They’ll arrive by nightfall and only then will the Games truly begin.

His hand shifts to his pants pocket, verifying once again that Felicity’s ribbon is still there; her eyes still lingering behind them, though the Glades are long out of sight. He can’t promise victory, but he _can_ do everything in his power to help her survive this, no matter the outcome.

In seven years, he’s never been able to bring one of his tributes home.

Surely, that means the odds must _finally_ be in his favor.


	4. Act I: The Hatching; Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! We hope to be back to a more regular posting schedule by January, but we've had a few things in our real lives that have temporarily taken precedence. In the meantime, thank you for being patient with us as we've worked on this chapter. We appreciate your support!

Act I: The Hatching  
Chapter III

 

From the blooms of dahlias that beacon along its front path to the white oak panels and gas-fueled lights, the wealth and grandeur of the Queens’ house - the only of its kind in the Victor’s Village - have always stood unparalleled in Felicity’s imagination. But here, amongst the decor of the Capitol train, it is the Queen Mansion that pales in comparison. Lace brocades drape across the windows, fine china decorates tables set and served for a dinner party, and she would lay down to sleep on the plush carpeting if not for the present company. 

And _this_ is only the dining car, a stepping stone between District 5 and the Capitol, her home and her potential grave. 

Too hyped up on adrenaline - and distracted by her lush new surroundings - she’d missed the border crossing from District 5 to District 2, the landscape blurring at the train’s speed. Now exhaustion creeps in, her thoughts lulling to the hum of the engine, her gaze on the window even as her eyes shift in and out of focus, the speed of the train preventing any clarity of sight. The sky tears white and blue streaks through mustard yellow - the fields or the desert, Felicity’s not familiar enough with the landscape to say. She knows their path though, and their goal for their final destination. Soon, if they haven’t already, the tracks will begin to loop north, leading them straight towards the Capitol. Once there, they will be among the first of the tributes to arrive, District 5’s proximity bringing them to the Capitol by day’s end and eliminating the need to travel through the night like so many of the other tributes. 

Shifting in her seat, the satin inlay slipping against her thighs, Felicity is reminded once again of the Queen’s home in the Victor’s Village. The panels here are made of cherrywood, the gas lights bedecked in shimmering glass, but it is every bit as overbearing, its prescience ever as looming. Do the Queens still even count District 5 as home, she wonders? She’s always felt the opulence of the Queen Mansion pressing against her skin, warning her not to stay too long, never to imprint any lasting impressions with her touch. 

Thea has never seemed to notice, but then, it is the only home she’s ever known. And Moira has always appeared at ease in the luxury of the many rooms, herself a physical manifestation of the house’s grandeur. 

Here, on the Capitol train, Felicity finally understands the inspiration behind the decor and opulence. Amongst spun-glass finery, Moira Queen appears every bit at home, every inch a victor. Oliver, for all that he will not meet anyone’s gaze, almost as disinterested - or rather, _distracted_ \- as he’d been during the ceremony, commands the same presence. 

She cannot say - cannot even imagine - that they feel at home here, sequestered on this train, but maybe that’s the difference. If this is only a taste of what the Capitol can offer, then maybe it’s what they’ve come to expect in the years since their victories in the Games. Maybe it’s why Oliver, at least, spends so much of the year there instead of at their home in District 5. 

And who is she to say what makes a home, anyway? Her entire life has revolved around building a _new_ home with Ray, a house for him, her, and her mother. She has always wanted to leave the home she’s grown up in, and now she has, except not at all in the way she had imagined. 

Tears prick her eyes at the thought of Ray - his last goodbye, those precious few moments in the square before the Reaping - followed quickly by the pinch of hunger. It’s been several hours since her last meal, the baker’s rolls they’d shared together, the dough sweet and heavy on her tongue. Laid across the table are pastries too delicate to touch, let alone eat. Beside them sit bottles of water and pitchers of juice, the vibrant shades of green and orange practically glowing.

She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hoping for one last taste of the roll’s sweetness, but tastes only sour weight instead. 

_“-I love you too.”_

“These look too good to eat,” Felicity bursts, waving a hand at the pastries stacked upon a crimped ceramic plate, glazed whirls of dough that shimmer golden-brown. “Are they, I mean, for us to eat? _Can_ the tributes even eat before the Games? I know the tributes can’t bring in anything, but maybe eating before works the same as with bears? Not that we’re bears exactly, just people. Very… human people. Who eat. Food. Of course we eat food - what else would we eat - ”

“You can have as much as you’d like,” Moira interrupts, cutting Felicity off with one imperiously raised eyebrow. Beside her, Oliver straightens to attention, _finally_ , his brow furrowing as his gaze flickers between Felicity and the food. “However, they will be serving supper soon enough, so perhaps don’t spoil your appetite.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Slade drawls. A smile stretches across his face, but there’s no humor behind it. “Though… that’s not a bad idea. You could be the first tribute to win by playing dead.”

Felicity bristles at the derision in his tone - that had _not_ been what she’d suggested at all, and Slade ought to have known, coming from the Community Home alongside Ray, of the importance of food, and how a steady supply of it can influence survival strategy. 

Slade is the opposite of Ray in every way, having taken great pains to avoid the home in which he’d been raised; as a result, Felicity has rarely interacted with him even though she’s a frequent visitor at the Community Home. If his attitude bares any indication though, Felicity’s glad that the opportunity’s never arisen - there’s no shame in aspiring for more out of life, but that doesn’t call for the the sacrifice of the people and support with which you started. Of course, in the end, their upbringings _both_ led them to the Games, and Slade may still _never_ have a chance for something more. At least she’s always had Ray and their promises; she’s immediately ashamed for criticizing his choices. After all, she doesn’t know much about her fellow tribute’s life or who he was before his name was called. 

Thinking of her mother, Shado, and even Ray and their dream, Felicity realizes she knows at least one thing about Slade Wilson: everyone survives the Glades through whatever means available. 

“Oliver and I have already discussed strategy for the both of you.” Moira takes a croissant of her own before cutting into it with a steel-shined knife. “We’ve decided the best course would be a partnership - the two of you clearly hold separate areas of expertise, which may very well benefit the other. For the start of the Games, at the least.”

The fact that no partnerships ever survive the Games intact is left unsaid. Even the Career packs turn on each other by Games’ end. 

After all, there can only be one victor. 

Slade straightens from his slouch, the tense set of his shoulders emphasizing well-defined biceps, his smile twisting into a scowl. “She has no strength,” he enunciates. “No skill. No training. To say she has a chance of winning would be a _lie_.”

“ _She_ is sitting right here,” Felicity snaps back. His words sting, though nothing he’d said is patently false. She _doesn’t_ have any strength or skills or training. Not in survival, at least. “And strength isn’t everything. The strongest tribute doesn’t _always_ win.”

“So you’re hoping to do what, exactly? You should be training. Ask your mentor, if you need proof.” Slade’s eyes flicker to Moira’s expectantly, as do Felicity’s, but it’s Oliver who answers. 

“Actually.” He finally looks up from the table and the play of light across the tablecloth, focusing on Felicity, and Felicity alone. “I’ll be Felicity’s mentor. Moira will be yours, Slade.”

He hardly raises his voice but silence dominates after his declaration.

At first, Felicity wonders if maybe she’d heard Oliver misspeak. It’s not forbidden, of course, for the male victors to mentor female tributes, and vice versa, but it’s certainly rarer. In fact, she can’t _ever_ recall Oliver mentoring a female tribute; they’ve always been advised by Moira, for as long as Felicity can remember. _Why her_ hovers on the tip of her tongue, but she bites the words back. It doesn’t have to mean anything, not if she doesn’t want it to. 

Slade, however, seems to think otherwise. 

“If you think partnering yourself with a pretty face and leaving me with your mother leaves me with any chance of survival,” he growls, standing up in his seat, “then you’re dumber than I thought.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Oliver replies, his voice toneless. Being accused of no more than a _pretty face_ , hearing Oliver insinuated as less than than dumb, Felicity would argue that Slade certainly _thinks_ it’s personal. 

Pushing away from the table, Oliver stands before switching subjects. “We’re only a few hours away from the Capitol.” If Felicity hadn’t heard the insults herself, she’d have thought Slade’s marks hadn’t even landed from the careless indifference - the _disinterest_ \- masking Oliver’s face. Crossing the car, he only half-calls over his shoulder to explain. “I’ll go and check on everyone’s rooms. If anyone plans to rest before we arrive, I’d recommend doing so sooner rather than later.” 

It’s a clear dismissal, in spite of the lack of direct response. 

The door has only just slid open when steel _sings_ through the air, the serving knife embedding itself deep into the wall inches from Oliver’s right earlobe. Its handle wavers in the air, vibrating from the force that threw it - 

“Twitch,” Slade dares. A second serving knife - _Felicity’s_ \- waits in his hand. “And I will open your throat.” 

Oliver’s spine goes rigid, his muscles clenching beneath the thin - nearly sheer - fabric of his shirt, but something tells her he’s not afraid. From the lines of corded muscle in his forearms to the too-still stance of his entire body, _he_ is the one controlling the silence. Her mind flashes back to the videos of his own Games and how easily he’d killed then, stalking tribute after tribute, never showing any hesitation. He’d skewered them like game, arrows stuck from their necks and chests, reducing them to only prey. Nothing more than targets, checkmarks on a list.

Slade makes the threats now, but Felicity remembers one tribute’s broken neck, another’s head bashed in by rock. Slade’s first throw was off-kilter; could Oliver reach him first? She thinks so. 

“ _That_ was mahogany.” Moira’s voice cuts through the tension. Like her son, she commands attention without ever needing to raise her tone. “Do not make the mistake of threatening my son again, Mr. Wilson. Nor question our decisions as mentors. Otherwise, we both know how your Games will end.” 

It’s the first time Felicity can recall either Queen directly referring to the other as family. All day, they’ve used “Oliver” and “Moira” instead of mother and son; of course, she hasn’t seen the two interact up close since her own childhood and has no idea what their relationship is like these days. She remembers Moira doting upon Oliver, but it’s hard to imagine her treating him now as she does Thea: checking after his friends, running fingers through his hair, smiling down at her son with pride. The threats, though, _that_ she can imagine easily enough; no one steps foot inside the Queen Mansion without Moira Queen’s express permission. All of District 5 knows that rule. 

“Oliver,” Moira calls, her voice almost gentle, “come back to the table. There will be plenty of time to rest later; the rooms can wait.”

Oliver sits back down again first, followed only then by Slade; neither have relaxed the rigid set of their shoulders. Felicity notices Slade has yet to stop clutching her knife in the hand nearest hers and glares. “What do you think you’re doing? Just because you missed the first time doesn’t mean that you should try again.”

Wincing at her gaffe, Felicity waits for the tension to ratchet back up. Instead, Slade lifts his eyebrows before putting the knife back on the table, his mouth curving into a smile. “Well, there might be some fight in you after all.” He turns his sharp eyes to Oliver. “Next time,” he says, a slight bite cutting through his cheerful tone, “I won’t miss.”

Before Oliver - or Felicity - can reply, Jean clears her throat. “The reapings should be about finished now,” she announces, checking the clock. “Why don’t we take a look?”

Felicity doesn’t particularly _want_ to watch the other reapings - she only just lasted through her own - but nonetheless, she follows Jean and the others from the dining car to the nearest compartment, this one occupied by large, plush couches and what looks to be an elaborate media center. Oliver sits on the furthest edge of the right couch, Moira mimicking his choice on the couch to the left. Sinking herself beside Oliver, Slade follows suit besides Moira, dividing themselves by tribute and mentor, though both leave room enough for Jean. Fluorescent bulbs and the glow from the television take the place of the dining cart’s natural light; all the better, Felicity supposes, to see the screen without a glare. 

The strategy behind Reaping Day always indicates meticulous planning - the reapings are staggered throughout the day, with the citizens of the Capitol watching live and the Districts only viewing after dark. That way, the Capitol receives constant live entertainment and the Districts understand that the recap of the Reaping Ceremony is no celebration at all; but rather, only the first of many mandatory viewings, and reminders, that the Games allow for consistency in one arena, and one arena, only. 

The odds of _someone_ suffering are certain, and certainly in the Capitol’s favor. 

“I find it never hurts to prepare as early as possible,” Moira states while Jean presses a button to call up the ceremonies. “Training will be your best chance to evaluate your opponents but the reapings should provide some basis of understanding.”

In reality, the ceremonies take place in the order of each district’s distance from the Capitol - setting up the same, or similar, arrival time for all the tributes - but the recaps begin with District 1, then 2, before continuing on as such. Those first four tributes are all volunteers, eagerly offering themselves as tribute before mounting the stage with determination in their eyes. It’s always struck Felicity as strange, how widely they grin and how proudly they stand. Their excitement is even more unfathomable - _unthinkable_ really - now that she’s become a tribute herself.

There’s no need to explain or analyze their background and strategy. Well-fed, well-muscled, stunning and handsome in equal turns. These are the Career tributes, from the Career Districts, and they _chose_ to enter the Games - they will be the most challenging tributes to face. 

In District 3, the tributes are older, much closer to eighteen than twelve, and when the call comes for volunteers, not one person answers - as typical a reaping as they may see. Felicity ignores the announcement of their names though she’s likely to hear them soon enough; in a week’s time, they’ll be in the arena together and either the boy and girl from District 3 will be trying to kill her… or she will be trying to kill _them_.

If she doesn’t know who they are, maybe their deaths - or hers - will hurt less. 

She can ignore the droll of the television, but she cannot help but notice that the female tribute from District 3 wears glasses just like hers. She pushes her thoughts away from camaraderie and focuses, as she does best, on logic - they both will be at a disadvantage then in the arena. As if their odds aren’t bad enough already.

The last of the Career Districts provides two more volunteers waiting and eager to replace the reaped tributes of District 4. Felicity tries tuning out the announcer’s observations, but she can still hear Moira comment even as Slade questions her. A knot forms in the pit of her stomach as the recording flickers to new cameras; she’s suddenly glad she didn’t indulge in a pastry because her stomach has already begun to churn. 

An aerial view of the home she’s known all her life flashes across the screen, narrowing in on the stage just in time for the District 5 Reaping Ceremony to begin. _“So heartbreaking,”_ the announcer - not the Master of Ceremonies, who will host the official evening recap of the reapings and then the Games themselves, but a smooth, identity-less tenor instead - narrates as Jean calls her name, the crowd parting as she passes through. She remembers the terror that had flooded through her, how she’d barely been able to draw a breath upon hearing her name called, how she’d trembled walking up to the stage.

_“It’s so rare to see young love like this. You do see it every so often, of course, but it’s been years since we’ve seen such a display.”_

Ray cries out for her on screen, struggling against the Peacekeepers who restrain him. She hopes that no matter what happens to her in the Games, he’ll be able to move on, to make a new plan with someone who can see their dreams through with him.

_“It’s a wonder how she’s holding onto that brave face! You can’t blame him for crying, though, she’s a stunner.”_

Felicity watches, amazed, as she continues to put one foot in front of the other, mounting the steps to the stage and never tripping. It is only when Jean calls for applause that Felicity holds her breath. She will never learn who snuck away from the Reaping Ceremony and flipped the switch hidden in the back alley just off the square, lighting the eternal flame in her honor. The light from the fire skips across her face, casting her in shadows and sunlight in equal turns. Whatever turmoil she knows she’d felt - to be honest, still feels - none of it is visible from the cameras.

_“And what a considerate gesture from District 5 - she’s practically glowing thanks to all that extra light. District 5’s very own golden girl!”_

They hadn’t held the ceremony when her father had died; because he’d run, he hadn’t been afforded that honor and at seven years old, she’d been glad. She’d been too angry at him, for leaving her and her mother, too angry and too hurt to want the honor of the eternal flame for his burial.

But today, District 5 had lit the eternal flame in _her_ honor.

Her attention shifts as the rest of the District 5 Reaping Ceremony plays out, her own memories playing over the images onscreen as first Slade is reaped and then standing beside her onstage. Even when the screen flickers to District 6 - where the female tribute is blonde, just like her - and then over to District 7, her thoughts weave in and out, the weight of the day finally crashing into her. Moira and Slade continue to converse, their words prickling the edges of her awareness, but nothing catches her eyes - or ears - until the reaping of the male tribute for District 8. 

“That’s lucky,” Slade remarks, as a young boy, barely past twelve, fumbles his way to the stage. Nausea floods back through her as the escort’s calls for volunteers - as expected - goes unanswered. Where before nothing could hold her focus, the screen now directs her singular attention to the confined space of their room, cramped without the windows of the dining cart. “He, at least, won’t be much of a challenge.” 

His callousness pulls Felicity away from the screen, and she can’t help but snap, “He’s a little kid!”

“Yes,” Slade says, “and he’s one I won’t have to worry much about. Look at him.”

But Felicity doesn’t need to look back at the screen to remember the terror crawling across the boy’s face, the way his lower lip had trembled and tears had formed in his eyes as the cameras had zoomed in. He’s just a boy - not a fighter or a tribute or a _killer_.

The screen hadn’t even cut away from his father, screaming for his son as the crowd - and then Peacekeepers - held him back. 

“You don’t know what’s going to happen,” she admonishes. _The odds don’t matter once your name has been called._ It has been her constant mantra since leaving the Judicial Building.

The odds had failed her before; maybe they could fail _for_ her this time.

“If one of the other tributes doesn’t kill him,” Slade reminds her, “then I will. That _is_ the point of the Games.” 

No, she wants to argue, the same speech she has mocked for years on the tip of her tongue. The Games exist to demonstrate the Capitol’s “strength and mercy;” they are the districts’ punishment for daring to rebel and the Capitol’s alternative to killing the rebellious whole.

They - the tributes - can kill one another and call it glory, triumph, _victory_ , but any child of the less-favored districts knows the truth: they kill in the Capitol’s name. 

“Felicity -” she turns at the sound of Oliver’s voice; it’s the first time he’s spoken since they’d left the dining car. He shifts his hand away from the couch, rubbing his index and thumb together. “When you go into the arena, it’s either kill or be killed.”

She recoils into the couch. Since Jean called her name - since the Peacekeepers dragged away Ray, her mother, the dreams and promises she had wanted and had chosen for her life - anger has been brewing deep inside of her and now, finally, it boils over, flooding down through her fingers, pressing up against her chest and ribcage. How can they _sit_ here being so cold and so rational? This is _life_ they are discussing; these are the people who might very well kill her and instead of fighting, instead of finding another way, they are just sitting here watching as each one is called up to the stage.

She’s always known what victory in the Hunger Games requires - she’s watched on screen, year after year, as the deaths piled up, the splatter of the bloodbath spraying the cameras red - but she had never gone far enough to picture the plotting behind the deaths of the other tributes, to plan for the murder of a boy no older than the students she tutors, just so she and Slade _might_ live past him? 

She had believed, if only for a moment, that she might be able to survive the Games, but if that survival comes at the cost of killing little kids, then maybe she should dismiss the idea of winning before the Games even start. She cannot just accept all this killing, or even look forward to it, not like Slade. Or - remembering how many people his bow had put arrows into - even like Oliver. Twenty-three tributes dead in his Games - too many by his own hand. 

He’d recounted every kill in his interviews. Smirking. Proud. 

“I think you’ve made a mistake.” She glares down at Oliver as she stands, suddenly sick at how his only move to help her has been his encouragement to kill, at how he’s wasted the day searching for entertainment or amusement, never seriously in the present. “In mentoring me,” she continues. “This isn’t going to work. Even just for the Games.”

He might be the Capitol favorite who will be guaranteed success at finding her sponsors. But if he’s not willing to find another way, then there’s no use; she _won’t_ kill needlessly and lose herself to the Games.

If she dies, she wants to die still _her_. 

Oliver lurches to his feet, but she doesn’t bother waiting for his response. Instead, she storms out before he can follow, heading for the private compartments Jean had shown them only hours before. 

No good can come from watching or listening anymore; no amount of training can prepare her for the arena and the choices it demands. 

Those choices are the ones that she cannot - _will not_ \- make. 

 

xxx

 

The moment the door to the compartment clicks shut, Oliver charges forward to chase after her. It’s only his mother’s voice that pulls him back.

“Give her a few minutes,” Moira warns. “She’s had quite the day - we _all_ have.”

If he leaves now, her voice warns, he’ll have played his hand, and breaking set patterns, taking on a female tribute, is already a notable enough incident. If he leaves right away to hunt her down, he’ll be calling the type of attention he’s always skirted before. Conceding his mother’s point, and aware she holds suspicions all her own, he turns away from the door to sit back down. The remainder of District 8’s Reaping Ceremony drags on, and by its end, he’s decided enough time has passed for him to leave in peace. Districts 9 through 12 are poor, outer districts anyways; with the exception of a few anomalies over the years, they rarely contribute to the competition. He can watch for their tributes later. 

Exiting the media compartment, he debates which way to go before heading towards the private cars, checking each room as he walks along the length of the train. It’s not until he sees the car to which she’s been assigned that he finally finds her, the flat screen flashing _Felicity Smoak: Tribute for District 5_ in bright red to indicate occupied, by its occupant. He palms his hand against the electronic lock, keyed to allow him access as her mentor, but the metallic click of the door doesn’t draw her attention when he enters; she is too busy pacing back and forth across the floor, hands tucked beneath her triceps, teeth gnawing her lips red, muttering words he cannot hear beneath her breath. 

“Felicity?”

She startles at the sound of his voice and stops short, spinning around to face him. “Don’t you knock?” she asks indignantly.

“Felicity, this is only a temporary room, not your home.” He may not have heard a word out of her mouth, but she still needs to be careful what she says. He knows better than most that when the Capitol concerns itself, not even your own home is truly private - let alone a room only on loan. She purses her lips instead of answering, so he continues, even if he hasn’t quite settled on the right words yet. He’d hoped to think of _something_ more coherent as he’d wandered down the hall; instead, he’s left with those initial, panicked thoughts. “I’m sorry.” He clears his throat before continuing more forcefully. “I’d like to apologize; I didn’t exactly put my best foot forward back there and… I was hoping you’d give me the opportunity to do that now.”

Her eyes, blotchy and rimmed with red, narrow but she trembles as she pulls her arms in even tighter around herself. “What about your idea of strategy? What else does it involve, besides killing helpless kids?” 

“I’m here to help you win,” Oliver responds, careful to reveal nothing in his voice or face. She doesn’t understand how the arena works, and she needs to if she’s going to have a chance in the Games. That is his responsibility as mentor: making sure, beyond a doubt, that she _understands_. “That is the only thing we’re here to do.” 

Felicity flinches, but instead of moving back, she steps closer to him, her hands sweeping away from her chest as her voice starts to rise. “Well maybe that was easy for you, maybe _you_ didn’t feel anything when you killed all those kids, but I can’t just accept that and I won’t just go in there and I - I can’t just go in there - and… ” Her eyes squeeze shut, and she swipes at them furiously, her lips pinching together before her voice drops. “I can’t - _won’t_! I can’t just go in there and - _do_ that - and if I don’t - that means… then that means…”

She trails off into plaintive gasps, crying, and he shifts towards her in response, remembering the night of his own reaping with surprising clarity. He’d held back every emotion until their arrival in the Capitol, but that night, alone in the Capitol’s room, he’d sobbed into one of the many pillows lining the bed. He hadn’t wanted to be alone, but he’d known, even then, how falling apart was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not if he’d wanted to survive the Games. His mother had promised him that he would make it home, and _he_ , in turn, had made that very same promise to Thea. To uphold it, he had known he would need to be strong. Rational. Without feeling. 

He’d made a choice in his Games. If she is going to win, Felicity will need to make that choice too. 

Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, Oliver is torn between the itch to comfort her - as he’d craved as a tribute - and the reminder that there are things he needs her to understand. Another sob shudders through her, her arms hanging loosely at her side, and the memory of her embrace with Ray ghosts through his mind. Her eyes had been dry when they’d left the Judicial Building, but he imagines Ray held her the same way before being torn from the room. Shado’s strong arms had bound Thea to the hallway the year of his reaping, his old friend nodding her goodbyes even as she shook with with the force of Thea’s sobs. In the years since, when he chooses, he’s only been close in such a way to Thea or his mother. Now though…

Prepared for her recoil, he reaches out for her left shoulder, the same spot where his father had used to clasp before leaving for work. Instead, _he_ nearly flinches, turning stone-still when she leans into his touch, closing the last few inches of distance between them as she wraps her arms around him.

She clings to him then, her small frame shaking as she sobs into his chest, snuffling her nose against his shirt. He knows, of course, that he is only a source of comfort, a warm body for her to hold; he is not the man that she wants close in this moment, not the man she’d truly draw comfort from under any other circumstances, but he is the one here now, and he still itches to comfort her if he can. Slowly, hesitantly, he brings his own arms up behind her, his chest curving around her body, his hands rubbing circles up and down her back, his cheek pressing against her head. For as long as he provides comfort, he’s content to hold her close.

When it comes to the Games, he knows how lonely the terror can be. He can give her his words - and his warnings for the arena - later. He’ll have no comfort then to give. 

The gasped pitch of her breathing eventually slows, a steady pattern of in-and-out breaths, her grip on his t-shirt loosening until only her thumbs trace lazy, lose circles along his ribs, drawing his attention to how lightly she touches him. “Thank you,” she snuffles, pulling back just enough to rewrap her arms around her waist. This time, though, she stays close, barely half a foot away. 

His body shivers without her warmth. 

“That was - wow, totally not an appropriate way to deal with all this -” Pressing her hand against her forehead, Felicity pushes golden curls away from her eyes. “I’m, ah, sorry for getting snot all over you. And for using my loud voice before.”

His lips twitch, but he resists the urge to smile. “I told you I was the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t put my best foot forward before, and I want to now.”

When she exhales this time, the stress seems to release itself on her breath, a small, bright smile blooming across her face. “Okay,” she says. “I just -” Her smile flickers, briefly, before determination takes hold again. “I’ve never seen anybody _die_ before. In person, I mean. And I don’t think I can be the person who does it. I don’t _want_ to be. I know things were different in your Games, but for mine, I need to find another way.”

“I’d never seen anybody die in person until my Games either,” he confesses. It is one thing to know of death, of the destruction it leaves in its wake, and to watch the Games when they’re televised; it is another entirely to be in the Games, to _be_ the destruction bearing down on people’s heads. “But Felicity - if you ever need to tell someone…”

He trails off, not entirely sure, again, what the right words are for what he wants to say. What she’s feeling comes to mind, along with what’s scaring her, but he settles on something less emotional - more appropriate - instead: “If you ever need to talk about what you think you can or will do, you can talk to me.”

She nods, eyes widening in what he hopes is pleasant, and not angry, surprise. Feeling the heat of their proximity, he backs away from her, eyes landing eagerly on the bed before striding over. She takes a seat beside him, near the two perfunctory pillows, maintaining a foot of distance. 

“So,” she drawls, tilting her head, a shower of curls following over her shoulder. “What _is_ your big strategy, if it’s not sending me in blind or as something I’m not?”

“All they want is a good show,” he responds, huffing out a breath at her honesty. She’s lost yet another hair ribbon between the Reaping Ceremony and the trip to the train; her hair looks bereft, if still golden, without it. Golden, he thinks - the announcer’s words playing across his mind. “That’s all they ever want.” Golden, he thinks, if she gives them _that_. 

“I don’t think I can act my way out of the Games, Oliver.” The smile teasing her lips, bright and _real_ , sends warmth furling through his stomach. 

He shakes his head, an idea beginning to take flight. 

District 5 adores Felicity and had mourned her when her name had first been called, lighting the eternal flame in her honor. He’d latched onto her his very first time back in District 5, drawn to her bright smiles and blonde hair, the first feeling he’d felt of home since the end of his Games. Ray and her mother could barely be convinced to leave her side; they’d needed Peacekeepers to remove them. Even Thea had begged him to mentor her, to bring Felicity home as their mother had with him. He’s not sure what, but there’s just something about her. Something remarkable, that no one he’s seen has been able to resist. “Don’t worry. They’re going to love you.”

“It’s not a voting competition, Oliver.” He stares at her, taking in the tremulous rise to her eyebrows, the confusion - again, without anger - in her eyes. “I still won’t be the strongest fighter there. And you know I won’t kill needlessly.”

“No, you’re not. And you won’t have to - we’ll have time to figure that out. That’s all part of the strategy.” He winks. He has calls he needs to make. He’ll need to borrow his mother’s sponsor list, call in favors he’s held onto for a special day. A special tribute even. “You’ll be something else though. Someone better.”

Felicity’s lips curve into an question, her head tilting quizzically. “Oh?”

“The tribute they love most.” 

 

xxx

 

An hour later, they’re just finishing supper as the train emerges from the tunnel, speeding into the Capitol - they, as in her, Oliver, Slade, Moira, and Jean, not they as in _her and Oliver_ , though her and Oliver _did_ spend the evening in her room, discussing strategy before Oliver had left to deal with mentor responsibilities. He’d suggested she rest before rejoining everyone; she’d tried, only to find her head too full of thoughts and her stomach still too empty, hunger gnawing without any distractions. 

Luckily, the meal had been a grand affair: four decadent courses of vegetables curled into reimaginings of wildlife, succulent meat seared and sliced rare, toothy grains tossed alongside dried fruit and cheeses, and that was all before they’d even reached dessert. Felicity is certain the remaining food, even though she’s eaten three times her normal fill, could feed her family for several weeks more. Ray, in particular, would like the vegetables, she thinks - he always smiles on days they get harvest shipments from the further districts. Too full already, she only manages a few bites of the rich chocolate cake that serves as dessert, closing her eyes so as to fully enjoy its taste on her tongue. Slade, on the other hand, seems to have no such problem and has finished every course without fail, though he asks if Felicity really _does_ plan on hibernating her way through the Games when she keeps nibbling at the cake, torn between how good it tastes and how full her stomach feels. 

Just this morning, she had been planning her, Ray, and her mother’s celebratory supper - their most indulgent meal of the year - but any dishes she’d imagined, any food they’d have been able to afford pales in comparison to the feast served on the Capitol’s train.

The train tilts to the right, the magnetization of the tracks stopping the water in their glasses from even shaking, but the walls outside their window begin to fall away, the skyscrapers and extravagance of the Capitol taking their place. Unable to resist the first real glimpse of the city she’d thought she would only ever see on a screen, Felicity pushes aside her plate - and with it, thoughts of the far less elegant meal her mother and Ray are most certainly sharing back home - and scrambles over to the window. The late evening sunshine casts a burnished glow over the city with its sleek, elegant buildings and its wide paved streets. As the train slows down, a break in the buildings reveal square after square - the steel and electric-manned versions of District 5’s own square - in which large crowds of people have gathered. A woman with feathered, lilac hair and a metallic burgundy sheath for a dress shoves her way to the front, waving a tattooed arm in the train’s direction. Behind her, two boys - no older than fifteen - grapple to upstand the other; they’re indistinguishable beyond one’s distinctly verdant mohawk versus his twin’s sapphire crew cut. 

They aren’t just loitering, Felicity realizes; they’re here to see _them_. The citizens of the Capitol have come to catch their first look at the trains - and their tributes - as they each arrive. 

In the school library, half-hidden in one of the abandoned sections, Felicity remembers finding an old history book once. It had detailed a time before the rebellion, when there were places called zoos and aquariums and people could go visit to watch animals they’d locked up in cages. Felicity imagines those animals must feel rather like she does now, the thought making her vision swim, but as she spots a trio of girls, all waving eagerly in her direction, all sporting gauzy, satin dresses a shade brighter than hers, Oliver’s warning rings in her ears: as soon as they enter the Capitol, anyone is a potential sponsor.

_“Don’t worry. They’re going to love you.”_

He’d sounded so confident, but as she offers an awkward wave to the crowd, her stomach sinks at the thought it’s going to be anything _but_ easy. The hairs at her neck prickle as someone comes up behind her, close enough to feel their warmth through her dress, and for a moment she worries that it’s Slade, but only until a gentle hand lands on her shoulder, squeezing in support. _Oliver._

He raps twice on the window with his free hand, drawing the attention of the gathered crowd.

The excitement of the crowd spikes, their reaction swift and immediate - they scream his name and cry, throwing flowers and confetti at the moving train car. She’s always known, of course, that the Capitol loves Oliver Queen, but to see it first hand is an experience in itself. 

Leering at the Capitol crowd, he transforms into a man she’d have recognized any day but today, the one she’d seen during interviews, half-heartedly mourning the loss of another tribute from their District, smirking and recounting the glory of his own Games with pride. She turns away from the crowd and furrows her brows at him instead.

“You _did_ say I should knock,” he says with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He may be playing careless, proud, and indifferent for the Capitol crowd, but a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and he winks so that only she can see.

In spite of herself, she laughs at his terrible attempt at a joke. “We’re in the dining car, Oliver.”

The screaming from the gathered crowd gets louder still, and only when Oliver shrugs again does she notice that his left hand is still resting on her shoulder. “It’s their way of saying they missed me,” is all he offers by way of explanation.

“Well, if it works for you then go with it.” Felicity shakes her head and turns back to wave at the crowd. They don’t move until the train pulls into the station, standing together even as Felicity leans her head on his hand, her hand still waving, a bemused smile on her face. The exhaustion of the day is hitting her once again, running her thoughts through molasses, and she doesn’t even have time to protest when Capitol escorts whisk them off the train, away from the screaming crowds, and walk her right into the building next door.

It’s so much quieter without the background of their screams. 

Jean explains that everything they need for the next week will be right here in this building, but Felicity barely pays her any attention, too busy fighting yawns and trying to take it all in. Even as Jean motions to the connecting walkways that lead to the City Center - where their interviews will be held - and the Training Center, Felicity only glances over, hoping there will be a guide or map or something later. Jean leads them to a row of elevators, but Felicity feels a gentle tug at her elbow before she can join.

“We’ll go up separately,” Oliver says, nodding his head as a terse look passes between him and his mother. Only after the elevator doors close does he focus on Felicity. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with your stylist tonight so we can get a head start on your costume for the opening ceremonies.”

“My costume?” she parrots, as he leads her over to another set of elevators and pushes the call button. The costumes are part of the Tribute Parade and usually reflect each district’s industry; the costumes for District 5 usually involve some variation on power plant workers. It’s not too bad, all things considered; not like the coal miner costumes of District 12 or the cattle herder costumes of District 10. 

The year of Oliver’s Games has been the only exception Felicity can remember to District 5’s usual theme. He’d worn the costume of a forest hunter, his first display with the bow and arrow that would win him his Games; it had reminded her so much of one of the stories her mother had used to tell her when she’d been younger, swordplay and heroes who always saved the town. In interviews, his stylist had discussed wanting to highlight Oliver’s natural power; he’d reminded everyone not to discount Oliver simply because of his age.

“We haven’t made any final costume decisions, but I suggested we try something different this year if that’s okay.” The elevator doors open and they step inside. With a quick press of a button, the doors close again and the car begins to move, swift and steady, entirely unlike the sole rickety old elevator in the Justice Building back home.

“Oh,” is all she can manage as the elevator arrives at their destination and he guides her down a long, brightly lit hallway.

“They call this the Remake Center,” Oliver explains, opening one of the doors and ushering her into a large suite. “You’ll meet your prep team here tomorrow morning.”

Beside the window overlooking the city lies a set of couches; a man stands in front of them, looking out at the lights twinkling below. She recognizes his face, but not his name, from years of the annual broadcasts; he’s one of the few stylists she’s never minded watching - he keeps his interviews short and straightforward, focusing on the tributes instead of his costume choices. _I prefer to let my work speak for itself_ , she remembers him saying one year. What would her costume, she wondered, say about her? 

“Felicity Smoak? I am Yao Fei.” He introduces himself with a polite nod of his head before looking her over, lingering as his eyes move from her feet to her forehead. A hundred questions form on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them back, hesitant to interrupt his thought process in favor of her babbling.

It’s Oliver, though, who breaks the silence after several minutes have passed. “Do you think it will work?” he prods, an impatient question that reminds her of the young boy she’d known, who’d always wondered whether she could _actually_ fix his toys after she took them apart to see how they worked.

Yao Fei gives him a satisfied nod. “I know it will.”

“What will work?” she asks, giving into the urge to to let loose just _one_ of her many questions. 

“We want to highlight your natural power,” Yao Fei says, as if that’s supposed to provide an explanation. It’s the same explanation he used for Oliver’s costume, which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense to her.

She looks from Oliver to Yao Fei and back again, knitting her eyebrows together. “But...I have no natural power,” is all she can manage to stutter in response. “I’m an engineer; I deal with all sorts of unnatural power. Not - nature.” 

“You are wrong, Felicity,” Yao Fei answers. “I can see you have a great deal of natural power; it was apparent even at your reaping. Your costume for the opening ceremonies will reflect that.”

“The opening ceremonies will be the first real chance for the sponsors to see you,” Oliver adds, taking a seat on one of the couches and motioning for her to sit beside him. She does, making sure to keep a nice, consistent foot of space between them. He’d been nice to her, on the train, but there was no reason to think he’d meant anything by it. He was her mentor, not her friend. “We want to make sure they remember you.”

Fighting the same weariness that’s plagued her all day, she sinks back into the plush cushions, rolling her questions round her tongue. “And how do we do make sure they remember me?”

Yao Fei glances over at Oliver before directing his attention to her. A faint, but distinct, smile warms his face. 

“We’re going to give them the Golden Girl.”


	5. Act I: The Hatching; Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! We apologize for the unexpectedly prolonged hiatus, but we anticipate getting back to more regular updates now. We're very excited to share this chapter with you and move one step closer to the arena. Enjoy!! And may the ~~odds~~ angst be ever in your favor ;)

Act I: The Hatching   
Chapter IV

 

“Over one hundred thousand people, _just_ craning to get a glimpse of this year’s tributes - and the sponsors get to see the tributes for the very first time! The importance of this moment _cannot_ be overstated...”

The opening salvo of the announcer clamors from above, the tributes’ first glimpse past the steel and mahogany doors that barricade the Capitol stadium. One by one, the chariots carrying the tributes of the inner districts pull ahead, led by horses whose coats gleam mahogany in the torch light. It’s not nearly as efficient as electricity, Felicity notes, shuffling uncomfortably next to Slade, but here, the Capitol prioritizes _other_ goals. 

_“All they want is a good show,”_ Oliver had reassured her, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. _“So that’s what we’re giving them. What -_ who _\- they want. The Golden Girl.”_

He’d winked then before leaving with Moira, the rules dictating the tributes stand alone in the Opening Ceremonies. 

Their chariot jostles forward, the horses barely trotting through the waiting hall, past the steel and mahogany doors that tower high above her head, beside the guards lined and stationed far past - 

“And here comes one of my favorite districts!” the announcer shouts gleefully. “District 5 is trying something different this year - something powerful, it looks like! It’s already hard for me to look away!”

The horses pick up speed, and Felicity nearly tumbles into the handrails; it is only Slade’s grip on her elbow, his fingers wide and powerful, that steadies her. 

“Thank you -” she starts, but cheers explode all around them, swallowing any more words, his _or_ hers. 

Shouts garble into one continuous roar; screams press against her eardrums and face, sound made solid. Tempted to twist in every which direction, her eyes flicker from the crowds to the screens, to the screens then the crowds, then back, and back again until Oliver’s words echo in her head - _“Hold onto your smile. But keep your head in the game. You’re not a target, you’re not a threat, but you’re not one of them either. You’re different - and you need them to remember that.”_ Felicity’s not quite sure _different_ is how she would classify herself. From her perspective, the lives of the Capitol’s citizens revolve entirely around the glorification of the Games; Felicity is only one of the many, many tributes that have come and passed. Only victors are _different_ to them. But when she thinks of how at ease Moira and Oliver had been in the Capitol train, of Oliver’s clear preference for the Capitol over District 5 over the years, she can’t help but wonder if descriptors like _different_ even apply to the victors of the Games. 

Or do the victors become part of the Capitol too? 

“Listen to them go! I’m going to go out on a limb and say that District 7’s stylist has done it again. How great do their tributes look?”

The cheers of the crowd have muffled her senses, the whooping and jeers dulling to a low roar, but the heat of the their attention has not yet wavered. It’s unusual, she realizes, her cheeks warming, the sheer enthusiasm of the stadium overwhelming every other sense. By now, the next districts’ chariots should have captured the Capitol’s interest, their costumes garnering a fresh wave of oohs and aahs. The petite blonde from District 6 looks cute in her jaunty conductor’s hat, her partner abrasive and intimidating beside her. Branches twine up the bodies of District 7’s tributes in a tried and true strategy that they have not changed as long as Felicity can remember. 

She’s right, though - it’s more than unusual, it’s _different_. The cameras barely linger on each new chariot before flickering back to Felicity and Slade. 

_“You’ve watched the parade at home, but that’s not the same as being a part of it. Try not to think too much about it, and focus on something else.”_ Before she could ask where he would be - if maybe she could focus on him, instead of the crowds - Oliver had held out his arm and helped her into the chariot. Her fingers had brushed his as his arm fell away. _“If anything happens, I’m right inside. You can trust me, Felicity.”_

She’s hard-pressed to reconcile the Oliver of the last twenty four hours with the victor of the last seven years, harder still when she remembers the boy she’d once called her friend. But in spite of the fact that he has only worn a face of careless indifference around her - around everyone - for years, Felicity does feel as if she can trust him. 

At least when it comes to the Games - when it comes to her _surviving_ the Games - she trusts him.

So with his words in her ear, Felicity straightens her spine, redirecting her attention to the rotunda in the distance instead of on the quiver pressed against her back, its thick strap digging into her breastbone. Already, the tributes of Districts 8 and 9 have followed in their stead, the Capitol’s eager cries again shifting - perhaps permanently - to their chariots.

“Feast your eyes on District 9,” the announcer chuckles. “Don’t they look good enough to eat?”

Although Felicity cannot turn around, she catches sight of the aforementioned costumes as the screens zoom in for a close up. The tributes’ hair fringes upwards to resemble wheat, and both wear see-through, skin-tight suits, strategically decorated with stalks of grain to reflect the harvest industry of District 9; they appear, to the naked eye, essentially nude. They aren’t the only district to aspire for sex over strength, and once again, Felicity is grateful for the little dignity her costume provides. 

The same metallic weave as her quiver weighs down her dress, finely-edged layers upon layers of sharp gold platelets that itch against her skin. The cameras flash back to Slade and herself, the light catching along the gold painted throughout her hairline, spiraling through her curls; she and her sheath of fish scales shimmer golden until it dangles at mid-thigh. The screens of the stadium highlight the fully display of her costume - down to the pale ribbons of sunlight that twine down her legs, where her sandals contrast the new - _painfully_ new - hairlessness of her skin.

She shimmers with every shift in the light, shining, _stunning_ \- a girl she has never seen reflected in the mirror before. It hits her, then, why the image still strikes her as familiar. This is the same frame, the same feed, that Ray and her mother will be watching back in District 5; the same view of the tributes she has seen, year after year, for her entire life. 

_Anastasia. Max. Maddie. Jordan. Margo._ Countless others - some she’d known well and some she hadn’t known at all - all of them tributes; all of them just another piece of the Games. Even, she remembers with a shudder, _Oliver._

Frantically, she tries to recall their costumes, their faces, features about them beyond the fact that their names had been called and that they’d gone to the Capitol. To the Capitol, and then onwards to the Games, where - excluding only Oliver - they had all, violently, irrefutably, _died_.

Faces, weapons, costumes flicker through her mind, a slideshow of District 5’s usual variation on the workers in the power plants or the engineers with their electrical gloves - but mostly, _mostly_ , she sees herself. Or not herself. 

She sees District 5’s Golden Girl.

Forcing her grip away from the chariot handles, Felicity hides her flinch in the backwards roll of her shoulders, the lengthening of her spine. Instead, she narrows her focus, concentrating on standing straight, standing steady, on the memory of Oliver’s promise from before the parade: _“If anything happens, I’m right inside.”_ The cheers and cries of the Capitol dull the brighter she smiles, a monotonous roar where she can no more distinguish their words from the announcer’s. Her fingers linger near Slade’s, brushing the back of his hand, but he keeps his fists clenched, his palms always turned inwards.

_“All they want is a good show.”_ The thought echoes in her head, a counter beat to the crowd’s drum.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Slade grimace, the dark planes of his face clearly illustrated beneath the bright stadium lights. Moira, she assumes, had led Yao Fei to the opposite approach for Slade’s costume - where he dripped silver, she shone gold. A sleeveless silver brocade reveals biceps the size of baker’s loaves; its high collar emphasizes his height. Though, really, standing next to her alone did _that_. Pale moons for buttons stud down his front, winking in each twist of the light, and like her, silver paint streaks across his temples and into his hair, combed back in a sleek pompadour by his Prep Team. She would have thought he’d look silly or pompous - their District not exactly known for imitating the Capitol’s flair for fashion - but his bulk makes the style dignified, even intimidating, which is the point, she supposes.

_“We’re giving them what they want.”_

The Golden Girl and the Silver-Tongued Boy, tributes - and one, always one, hopeful victor - from District 5.

If the screams of the Capitol, the apparent adoration of the camera screens, or even the glib remarks from the announcer indicate anything, then they - _Felicity and Slade_ \- are what the Capitol wants. 

She knows, rationally, that at their current pace, it’s a twenty minute ride from the waiting hall to the rotunda at City Center, but it feels as if hours have passed by the time the chariot she shares with Slade pulls up before the podium. Alongside the first four districts, they form the beginnings of a semicircle; the rest of the outer districts follow behind them. Only once their chariot comes to a complete stop does Felicity look out at the crowd, finally taking in all of the thousands of people who have gathered to see the tributes in person, just in time for the start of the Games.

From this moment on, all of Panem will be watching her every move. She tries not to focus on how many more moments or moves she has left.

Instead, she blinks and absorbs the scene before her, once more testing her vision’s limits with the new contact lenses that are a small, but vital, part of her costume. She’d been forced by her Prep Team to give up her glasses for the Costume Parade; the old aluminum frames would detract from her new image as the Golden Girl, they’d argued.

What her Prep Team hadn’t said - the simple reality to which no one had wanted to give voice - is that her glasses would be a weakness, particularly in the minds of Capitol sponsors, all with access to corrective surgeries for their own vision deficiencies.

She has to fight the urge to adjust her glasses - still feeling the phantom frames against her face - but with her temporary contact lenses, everything sharpens into focus, brighter and more clearly defined. Felicity has never seen a view like this before.

The last of the chariots - and the tributes from District 12, dressed in their usual coal miner costumes - pulls into City Center; the announcer’s commentary echoes this close to the podium: 

“I know you’ve all been burning with anticipation for District 12’s tributes,” he shouts. Felicity doesn’t think she’s imagining the dryness to his tone; the crowd cackles in response. District 12 has not had a tribute win in nearly twenty years now, for good reason. They are the poorest of the outer districts, and the best way to describe their two living victors would be - _odd_. “Last but not least, you could call them dead ringers!” 

The crowd’s laughter shifts into jeers, the tone more mocking than cheering. It’s true the coal miner costumes are uninspired, and that the odds of District 12 having another victor are slim. It is a harsh reminder that the announcer’s purpose - kind as he may attempt to be - is not, ultimately, to speak well of the tributes. Or even of the dead. 

They are the _show_ , and he entertains the Capitol throughout it all. 

“I digress, though. They are last, but most certainly not least - District 12, you can mine on me anyday in those costumes.” His salacious tone gears the crowd for his final announcements, their laughter erupting into cheers. “Let’s hear it for this year’s tributes, the tributes of the seventy third annual Hunger Games!”

Felicity finally tears her gaze away from the crowd, her eyes shifting to the podium where she’s met with the Master of Ceremonies’ enthusiastic grin. Tall and proud, Tommy Merlyn is the public face of the Capitol to the yearly Hunger Games, as familiar and beloved as the victors. The only thing that sets him apart from his predecessor, Warren Patel, is the warmth in his eyes. At least, Felicity’s always imagined warmth there, even in her memories of when he’d first taken over the job five years ago, her first year eligible for the reapings. Maybe it’s only hope, refusing to die in her chest; maybe it’s how, for all his sly digs, he _does_ make an effort to put tributes and victors at ease when they sit before him in interviews; maybe it’s because, like her memories of Oliver the boy, not Oliver the victor, she remembers the rapport between the two, or even friendship, built from years of Oliver joining his mother in the Capitol even before he was reaped. 

And if she had decided - if she feels - that she can place her trust in Oliver, then that extends to those he trusts as well. Trust in her survival, at the very least. Whatever the reasons, the sight of Tommy Merlyn, cobalt blue paint streaked through his own dark hair and gaudy violet tunic opened down his navel, the glitter on his chest winking each color of the rainbow in the light, releases the tension in her stomach. It is the first moment of the day she has not felt absolutely terrified. 

_“I have no idea what he’s wearing,”_ Felicity can imagine Ray commenting in her ear, _“But I’m pretty sure it’s a peacock, according to the history books.”_

She almost, _almost_ , laughs at the nearly filled feeling of home, but then a man, swathed all in black, rises from behind Tommy, and approaches the podium. 

“Now this man needs very little introduction,” Tommy states, his demeanor switching to serious. “Though we are continually grateful for both his leadership and charming good looks - ” Tommy winks, then; his show of brevity sending laughter through the crowds. Her own thoughts of laugher have vanished like smoke on the wind, the tension in her spine back tenfold. “Today we are gathered instead in _honor_ of his efforts to extend the grace and mercy of the Capitol to all of Panem. _He_ is the man responsible for what Panem is today.”

Sweeping his arms back to the cheering crowd, their cries rising in frenzy, he beams as the President stands beside him, his somber attire so unlike the brightly colored citizens of the Capitol - so unlike his own _son_.

“He is the man - the master of Games - the magician, even as his friends call him - and the most esteemed President of Panem - may I present President Malcolm Merlyn!“

Another twenty minutes - _hours_ , even more - pass before the crowd quiets, silence falling over the Capitol. 

“Thank you, son,” the President responds once he’s reached the podium, the same good-natured smile stretched across his face. He looks the same now as he does in all of their history books back in District 5, even in pictures dating back to the year he took office, the year Moira Queen won the 50th Hunger Games. He’s somehow more imposing - even larger-than-life - in person though, and Felicity shivers as he reaches for the microphone.

“Welcome, citizens,” he proclaims, a dramatic pause as the crowd cheers again, an instrument beneath his fingers. “Welcome, tributes. Since its inception, the Hunger Games have served to better this nation. But all progress - all great nations - requires sacrifice. It requires _conviction_. As your President, I have tirelessly devoted myself to the improvement - to the salvation - of this country. _Our_ country. And with each consecutive Hunger Games, we move closer towards a better Panem. So we salute you, tributes, for your courage and your sacrifice. We wish you all a happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

He steps away from the podium then, and the crowd - the _Capitol_ \- erupts in cheers. Their focus, though, remains on him now, and they do not waiver when the tributes’ horses, without any prompting Felicity can see, pick up their trot once more, leading the tributes away from the stadium, to another waiting area beneath the rotunda. 

It’s _over_ , she realizes, clutching again for the handles as the chariot draws to a rather sudden stop. They - _she_ \- did it, and now she can change out of this awful costume and get this terrible gunk that she swears she’d never wear out of her hair. She’d thought, before, that she might like to keep the contacts, but now, as her nerves crash down, Felicity longs to replace even their clear, flawless vision with her bent wire frames, down to the crack at the far edge of her left lense. 

“Felicity!” a voice to her left calls, and it takes her a second too long to realize that one, the voice is Oliver’s and that two, unlike Slade, she hasn’t moved from the chariot since it came to a stop. 

“You did great,” he effuses, hovering at the chariot door. “That was - ” he shakes his head, something Felicity might call a smile on anyone else crossing his face. Torn away from her thoughts, she finally takes a step out of the chariot, only to wobble when the weight of her dress - and her quiver - throw her off balance.

Oliver catches her before she can stumble any further, one arm wrapping hesitantly around her waist. When she steadies herself on his chest, her fingers digging into his shirt, his hand tightens around her waist in turn, pressing her closer into his hold. “I imagine you hold girls under very different circumstances,” she huffs, her mind flashing to the cheering crowds of the train, to the screams of the stadium, the vibrancy of the Capitol itself, before she can think that thought through. “Or boys!” she corrects herself, her face flushing when she realizes _that_ comment doesn’t exactly help either. 

“Holding girls - or boys - or anyone! - under platonic circumstances,” she corrects herself, righting herself out of his hold. His hand lingers at her arm though, his fingertips skimming against her skin. “ _Very_ platonic circumstances.”

Instead of laughing - as most people do when she makes a gaffe like that - or even smirking at the innuendo, Capitol Cupid as he is, a smile flutters across as his face, his eyes beaming as they had when he’d first approached her. “Felicity,” he sighs, “you were wonderful out there. You most definitely made an impression.”

“Thank you,” she responds, giving him her first genuine smile in what feels like hours. “But it wasn’t me - not really! It’s the dress and - all of this.” She waves her hands, indicating her hair and accessories, the careful work of Yao Fei and her Prep Team.

“It’s not only the dress,” he disagrees, giving a quick smile and shake of his head to indicate that he considers the subject closed to further debate. His lips flatten into that blank but not, she notes, careless, expression, as he steps back, eyes moving away from her to the scattered groups of tributes and mentors. “Slade and Moira must have already started back to the rooms,” he says, after a minute of searching in silence. “We should go join them. You have a long day tomorrow.”

They’re nearly at the door when they’re blocked by a man and woman too old to be tributes - or rather, they’re not so much blocked by the other couple as Felicity loses her balance thanks to the weight of her dress yet _again_. She knocks into the man; when he turns, though, he calls out Oliver’s name and is greeted by another actual _smile_ by Oliver. 

That’s two in one day. Maybe she hasn’t seen it yet, but maybe he has found something in the Capitol that feels like home to him. More than District 5 does, at any rate.

“Felicity,” Oliver says from behind her, positioned just to her left and out of view, unless she wants to risk another off-balance collision, “this is John Diggle - one of District 11’s victors - and his wife, Lyla, another of District 11’s victors.” 

“The _only_ of District 11’s victors, you mean,” a petite woman, with dark hair and a fierce expression on her face, volleys backs to Oliver, her voice matter-of-fact. She’s not arguing, though Felicity does see their tributes wince behind her. They’re barefoot, in overalls, as is their District’s usual costume, bare-faced and real in the waiting area’s lower lights. Their costumes are meant to represent their working of the land, but Felicity wonders why they don’t wear trees, or fruit, something closer to District 9’s costumes at least. Here, they are vivid, but she cannot imagine their costumes holding up in the bright lights of the stadium.

Then again, if Lyla’s words are true - and Felicity suspects they are, to her memory, at least - then District 11 rarely brings home victors anyway. They are among the poorest of the outer districts.

“For now,” the man - John - says, looking at her. She can’t tell if his gaze is sympathetic or not; he _should_ want his own tributes to win, but he isn’t angry or threatening like some of the other victors she’s seen. John seems like the type of man who’d be bothered by wishing death upon others. Even if he isn’t the one driving the killing blow. “You never know what a new year can bring.” 

“Mhmm,” Oliver hums behind her, and Felicity can feel the weight of his gaze on her back. The reminders - the exhaustion, the adrenaline, and even the sheer weight of her costume - knock right into her again, and her smile becomes strained.

“I think you were right,” Felicity interrupts, directing her attention to Oliver. She can almost see the confusion pooling in his eyes - it’s pretty much the opposite of what she’s told him since being reaped. “I have a long day tomorrow. I should rest.”

His eyes widen in understanding, and before she can really comprehend it, he’s said his goodbyes to Lyla and John, guiding her away from the waiting hall and towards the Tower and their rooms. She barely looks at him as she stumbles into her doorway, stripping down as the door latches shut behind her. She doesn’t need to worry about danger for now.

That’s what the Games are for. 

 

xxx

 

The celebration buzzes through the Capitol streets, the city’s splendour set alight by the excitement that lingers from the evening’s opening ceremonies. There are no dark spots from Oliver’s rooftop view, the city swathed in an ever-shifting rainbow of light. Only the Tributes’ Tower stands unlit, a reminder that though the city celebrates in their honor, the line between the Capitol and the Districts stands steady and strong. 

Every so often, the sizzle of fireworks _pops_ through the cacophony; each hiss and whoosh cutting through the joyful shrieks, bells, and melodies that drift up to Oliver’s chosen perch. There is no pattern, no rhyme or reason behind their send off, seconds passing between some, minutes between others. 

He flinches, regardless, each time. 

He cannot count how many nights he has spent on rooftops, watching just beyond sight as the Capitol lauds the newest victor, the newest Games, and the newest tribute or glory that their President has brought before them.

Tributes framed on either side by glamour and gluttony alike - the legacy the Hunger Games leaves each time. They celebrate them all.

He loathes every nameless, faceless one of them.

Today, though, they had loved Felicity. Slade too. According to Jean, who had stood watch with Oliver and Moira during the parade, _everyone_ who was _anyone_ had left the stadium fawning over the Golden Girl and the Silver-Tongued Boy, the tributes from District 5. 

_“The cameras couldn’t keep their eyes off of them,”_ Jean had reported, smiling slyly, _“Yao Fei outdid himself this year with the costumes.”_ Oliver does not care about the cameras, but the gossip is another story entirely - sponsors are what count in the Games, sponsors and a tribute’s popularity among the Capitol. 

But as much as he admires Yao Fei and works to honor the faith the stylist had placed in Oliver when he’d first dressed him in his own costume, he disagrees with Jean’s assessment. It isn’t their costumes that have captured the Capitol’s attention; their costumes had merely accentuated what makes each of them a tribute worth remembering: Slade, imposing and strong; Felicity, enduring and radiant.

Even if Felicity can’t fight, even if she scores low in the Gamemakers’ assessment tests, she still holds a chance so long as she remains at the forefront of the Capitol’s mind.

Her odds are still good so long as she gives the Capitol what they want: _the tribute they love most._

Slade, at least, isn’t competition in _that_ department; the proposed alliance between the two still niggles at Oliver though. If their costumes had demonstrated anything of note, it’s that Slade and Felicity couldn’t be more different, and while that may benefit Felicity at times in the arena, it’s a dangerous game to play. Any tribute who enters an alliance with the other tribute from their home district must follow certain unspoken rules, if he or she wishes to be welcomed home. Such an alliance will not last forever, after all, and there can only ever be one victor.

It’s just one more of the many strategies he’ll need to discuss with Felicity in the upcoming week.

He wishes he had a better understanding of Slade though, if only to better advise Felicity on when the right time to leave him would be. But if saying he understands Felicity now is a stretch, then saying the same of Slade would be a lie. He knows Slade vaguely of course; they’d shared some of the same friends back when he’d been allowed to attend school. But at one time, he’d known Felicity well enough to anticipate her moods; he might even have been able to guess her reaction to the Opening Ceremonies or her thoughts on the week ahead.

That had been _before_ though. Before both their fathers had died, before his reaping, before everything that had come after. 

He wonders if she still fixes the radio that always falters in the kitchen; he is not home enough to know where she and Thea study or if Felicity still even plays with all things electronic - _solving them_ \- like she’d used to. 

Like sparks to a firework, a thought trails down its fuse, ending with his memory of Felicity’s keen look as she’d watched Slade throw the serving knife on the train yesterday. 

What had she hissed to Slade again? _“Just because you missed the first time doesn’t mean that that you should try again.”_

A smile tugs at his lips. Oliver might have preferred to teach her archery, but there isn’t enough time - and there’s no guarantee she’d be able to get a bow on her own, even if he could sponsor one.

Knives and daggers, on the other hand, will be available in abundance, and with the right training, can even be tooled out of the most commonplace - or common ground - items. Slade had been lucky to have missed Oliver’s head; Felicity had been smart enough to calculate the weight and aim behind his throw. Oliver knows that her best hope for winning lies in determining the best way for Felicity to defend herself, in turning her size and lack of combat skills into an achievable offensive strike. 

She may oppose the idea of killing needlessly, but the reality _is_ that in the arena, everyone is a killer. Unless they fall in the initial bloodbath at the cornucopia, all of the tributes give in by the end.

But with a knife or dagger in hand, Felicity can work her skills to an advantage - calculating her throws from a distance will keep her from engaging in fights where her size will put her at a disadvantage, but small weapons still make excellent defensive tools up close. And an ideally placed stab wound or the severing of arteries can be lethal, with the right medical knowledge. If they make the time to work together outside of her allotted training with the other tributes, her odds become even higher. And she’ll be better off the less the other tributes know of her abilities anyway.

Jumped up on adrenaline now, he wishes she were here with him so that they could get started. He spends half his nights working out - working away restless energy - anyways. He’ll have to wait until breakfast now to broach the subject with her.

He’d nearly asked her before to join him on the rooftop, to watch the Capitol celebrations and even start strategizing, but she’d been so eager to leave the waiting hall after the ceremony, her focus drifting away as he’d walked her back to her room. Her adrenaline gone, she hadn’t even babbled when he’d wished her goodnight, nodding vacantly at his reminder about breakfast instead. He hopes she’ll be able to rest tonight, though he remembers the night of his own Opening Ceremonies all too well. That night had been when the reality of his reaping - of what they’d done to him - had truly sunk in.

Still dressed in his parade costume, the hood pushed back from his face, the face he’d seen in the mirror that night had been a stranger’s.

Another display of fireworks explodes against the night sky, bright greens and pinks and yellows painted against the darkness. The crowds gathered in the streets below continue to cheer, but Oliver turns away and heads back inside.

He wonders briefly if his mother will have returned already, if she might be waiting for him in the common area of the District 5 floor, before deciding she must still be down at City Center. President Merlyn had summoned her following the Opening Ceremonies, and he cannot imagine her refusing his call. She’d also mentioned wanting to touch base with Assistant Gamemaker Walter Steele as well.

Oliver tells himself it’s not a surprise when he finds the sitting area empty.

His mother has always handled their time in the Capitol in a way all her own, but he cannot begrudge her spending a few extra moments with a friend, particularly following an encounter with the president, a man Oliver himself is only too glad to avoid whenever possible. Resigned to encountering no one else for the night, Oliver retreats to his own suite, exchanging his gaudy Capitol clothing for a comfortable pair of sweatpants and settling in bed for his own attempts at sleep.

If he’s lucky, he’ll wake only an hour or two before dawn. 

Lying flat on his stomach, he tangles his feet across his bed, one hand firmly wrapped around the knife beneath his pillow. It’s a rare evening in the Capitol when he’s able to limit his company to only those he wishes to see, and the luxury of his bed is one of the few indulgences he permits himself while he’s here. Still too hard for most of the Capitol, though, he thinks, enjoying the firm press of the mattress beneath him. 

Lucky for him, this is _his_ bed. Not theirs…

His breath slowing, his fears for the days and weeks to come falling back in his mind, he should be surprised when he’s asleep almost instantly.

 

xxx

 

Outside her window, Felicity can hear the roar of the crowd and the explosion of fireworks, the Capitol’s celebration in her honor - in _all_ the tributes’ honor - but the noise barely even registers.

Instead, she abandons her dress - her _costume_ \- where it falls onto the floor and slips into a soft silk nightgown. She catches sight of the phoenix pin, her gift from Thea, gleaming from the corner of the rich mahogany dresser along the far wall, and stops to run a finger along the token, wondering what everyone is doing back home. Ray and her mother, Thea and Shado, countless others whom she encounters every day - at school, in town, at the power plant. She’d been with them only two days ago, and now they feel a lifetime away.

They _are_ a lifetime away.

There’s still gold paint in her hair, makeup and lotions massaged into her skin. She’ll ruin her sheets if she lays down in them like this, she knows. Not that it matters, she thinks. The Capitol has sheets and beds to spare. She pushes away the thought, half-formed, before it can turn her stomach - she is _not_ sleeping on the sheets of dead tributes’ past. 

Catching a glimpse of her face in the vanity beside the dresser, Felicity sees the girl staring back and blinks, hardly recognizing her own face.

_“The tribute they love most,”_ Oliver had said, his voice determined as he’d outlined his plan before herself and Yao Fei. _“The Golden Girl.”_

“Felicity,” she says to herself, surprised to hear her voice - her name - coming from the girl in the mirror’s lips. “Felicity Smoak.”

Turning on the faucet in the vanity sink - there’s another, even more elaborate, in the bathroom - Felicity scrubs and scrubs at her face and hair until not a mark is left, though she leaves three soft white cotton towels streaked gold and black and tan in a pile by her bed. Her skin shines raw and red in the mirror now, her hair tangled in knots round her head, and the contacts had fallen out sometime in her hurry to make herself clean. She doesn’t bother retrieving her glasses, which have been returned to the nightstand by her bed; she can only see clearly the closer she looks at herself in the mirror.

But at least it’s _her face_ she’s seeing now. 

Once she gives the command to turn off the lights, the exhaustion of the day - and the day before - rolls over her, pulling away thoughts of how soft the pillow is, how gently the sheets fall around her body. It’s only moments before she sinks down into a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
